


Camp

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (one hopes), Anal Fingering, Bottom Sam, Brother-touching, Case Fic, Comedy, Community: wincestbigbang, Dean reads fanfic, Episode: s11e04 Baby, Episode: s11e17 Red Meat, First Kiss, First Time, Horror, M/M, Masturbation, Meta, PDA, Season 11, Top Dean, Wincest Big Bang 2018, fake boyfriends, hell memories, mentions of torture, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 12:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16241282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: He’s in a motel room, reading about himself, in a motel room, reading about himself, reading—Dean’s head hurts—Wincest.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Art by [Nisaki](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/), which is breathtaking. [Please go show it some love!](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/post/178890565304/art-for-the-wonderful-story-camp-i-had-so-much) I can’t thank you enough, my friend, for your faith and patience. Thank you for your open heart and collaborative spirit. And of course, thank you for these beautiful gifts. 
> 
> Faithful [crowroad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowroad/pseuds/crowroad), words are not enough. You’ve gone so far beyond the calls of duty, honor, and friendship here. My eternal love and gratitude are yours.
> 
> Wincest Big Bang mods, as ever, y’all rock!
> 
> (This fic owes a debt to nyxocity’s “[Stranger Than Fiction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/379457/chapters/619888),” and flawedamythyst’s “[The Truth in the Lie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/359515/chapters/582720),” among many others. It is dedicated to all you hard-hustling fangirls out there. I love ya.)

 

 

“We are home,” Sam says, and Baby goes.

Dean pats her dash. “Come on, thaaat’s my girl.” Deputy Dipshit, nach-pire ghoul fucker, knocked the fuckin shit out of em. “Dude, we ain’t makin it outta state.”

Belt screeches, radiator steams. Caked blood where there’s window standing. Back floorboard’s full of brains. Backroad, two lanes, light traffic. Every thirty miles he has to pull off, pour water. Nurse her engine, keep her cool.

Sam slips in and out of sleep. Dean steals peeks, tries to get a look at that bite mark. Not-a-monster doesn’t mean, not-infected. Mouths are nasty. Pharmacy B-and-E goes on his mental to-do list. Get Sam antibiotics.

Damn Deputy Dick.

They limp into a motel, just past when driving without lights is strictly safe. Dean unloads, stows Baby under a tarp. Unpacks, stows Sammy under a blanket.

Broods: _“Not marriage, but… something.”_

Sam’s different since… well… Car smells like waitress, under the blood. That cashier. Dean was too busy getting beat down to appreciate Sam then, but, fuuuck. Easy elbows, draped over that counter. Dimples set to kill, hand on his mouth like he had a secret.

Water pressure’s not bad, not just by motel measures. Dean lets it beat tension out of his shoulders, slough whoever’s blood off. One of those pricks did a number on his ribs. Whole left side hurts like a mother. Bruises blue up. He’ll look worse before he feels better.

Post-hunt post-high, balls ache. He crowds the showerhead. Soaps up. Fingernails. Rough, hairy skin, slick scratch-and-tug. All those creased, hard-to-reach places.

He sees Sam on his knees. All the time, lately.

_“You’ll remember what it was to love.”_

Even now, all he can spare is a shadow, twinge of should-feel-guilty. Slippery grip. In his head, Sam’s mouth. Open, waiting, begs him to fill it. Bent over, fucked out, taking Dean’s load up his back. Here with him. Big hand wrapped around him. Whisper, “Please, big brother, show me,” squeeze, “how much you want me.”

Grip, twist, flick, lights out. Dean spills down his fist. Slumps on the wall and rides it, long as he can. Shoves up on shaky knees to rinse, soap, rinse again.

He crawls in bed wet-haired. Punches the lumps around in his pillow. Mattress creaks and his side complains.

Monster daddy, making an army. At least Dean got to kill him like, five times.

 

*

U-Stor-It cashier cringes. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mendraski.” Black hair, pierced lip, eyeliner. “This card’s not working.” Silver rings, leather wrists, the works.

“Ahhh…” Son of a bitch. “Try this one.”

Eyeliner runs the emergency prepaid. “We’re good!”

Dean breathes.

Quick walk to the motel, breakfast-to-go on the way.

Sam’s in the shower, back from his run.

Dean pictures soapy fingers, lean muscle and drenched skin. Flashback: backseat, foot in the floorboard, dick in his hand and a girl between his legs. Look on Sam’s face might’ve been _just-fucked_ , or might’ve been _you’re fucking next_.

Water cuts off while he sets the table. Sam strolls out in a towel.

“Bad news,” Dean gets on task. “We’re kinda marooned here. Musta pinged a fraud alert or somethin. Storage building and this food went on the backup card.”

Sam’s ass sways; shorts slide up long legs. “Shit.” Arms, neck and shoulders glisten. “But, this room’s paid up, what, two weeks?” He rubs his towel through his hair.

Dean nods.

Abs flex. “And the building…”

“Month.” Dean licks his teeth.

Bare chest and jogging pants, Sam sits. “I saw a couple of help-wanted signs on my run this morning. I’ll check em out.”

Dean unwraps sausage biscuits. “I’ll hit Walmart. Get us some cereal, pasta, you know the drill.”

Sam nods. “Oh, and I saw a sports bar.” Sips his juice. “Fifty Yard Line. Probably pool, darts…”

“ _Now_ I like where your head’s at.” Hash browns, ketchup and mixed fruit jelly. He grabbed extra of those; he’s no dummy.

“Been awhile,” Sam murmurs. Kind of a dewy, slide-away look from under his lashes.

“What, since we played house like this?” Crap.

Eyebrows shoot up.

He didn’t mean— “Well, you’re the wife.” Which makes it worse.

“You’re an idiot.”

 

*

By noon, Baby’s tucked safe in her garage. Dean scrubs blood out of her seats. Sweeps broken glass. Hairpin’s still here, Piper’s little glitzy butterfly. So’s the miraculous Hello Kitty purse, which—even in Dean’s line of work is a weird thought.

Sam’s out when he gets back. No messages. Dean microwaves a ramen cup, flips on the local news. Sam clearly straightened up in here, got fresh towels from the office. Laundry’s all bagged up, boots in a row. Dean eats on Sam’s bed, principle, takes in the riveting coverage of high school sports and water main breaks.

He’d put more work in, but the stuff he can do for no money’s gonna run out fast. Could check out that bar, catch dinner rush. Not like Sam, not to leave a note or something. Though, he didn’t know when Dean might be back; he coulda been gone ten minutes.

Dean pulls up cartoons on his computer.

Half an hour.

Runs through the Weird News, sniffs for cases.

Forty minutes.

Words With Friends. That eats up—

Forty-two.

 _Where the hell are you?_ he texts. Gets in the shower, so he won’t obsess.

Phone blinks. Still in a towel, he grabs it.

_At work_

_Fuck off_

Phone rings.

“Dude. How do you have a job?”

“It’s a long story.” Audibly smug. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Where?” Dean asks.

“Front desk.”

“Here?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What time—”

“Eleven,” Sam says.

“Hey! You get back, we’ll hit that bar. Can’t let my little woman bring home all the bacon.”

“I should go.” Flat.

“That’s right, Sammy, go get that money,” Dean goads. “Baby needs a new… everything.”

“Goodbye, Dean.” Sam hangs up.

 

 *

They squish at a counter-height corner two-top, backs to the wall.

“You want dinner?” Dean offers.

“Nah.” Sammy’ll skip meals, if Dean lets him. “It’s awfully late.”

He won’t. “Split fries with me. Peanuts, dollar drafts, we’ll be good.”

“I’ll drink water.” Prim.

Gutshot affection. Blush lights Sam’s cheeks, or, might be the Budweiser sign.

Hardwood reflects all kinds of neon. Hi-defs hang above scarred tabletops. Cues strike; balls smack-rattle. Any luck, they’ll find a group of regulars, guys they can bleed for a net of ten, twenty bucks a night. Keep them in groceries. Sam gets paid Friday; Dean can buy parts then.

Won’t do to be seen and not, _be seen_ , given their long con. They face off, knock around 8-ball. Can’t play flashy, scare the fish. Sam shoots like he spars: methodical. Kid brother, formative years out-matched. Dean used to think Sam didn’t know what he looked like: underage, lanky, draped over worn felt.

He sways around his cue like it’s a pole. Leaves Dean no shot. Again. Unguilty grin, dimpled and shoulder-hitched.

“You suck.”

“You wish.” Coy.

Dean swallows, takes a breath. Circles the table and lines up, pockets an outrageous combo. Gloats, “That’s right. Who’s the master here?”

Sam scoffs. “That was slop on your best day.”

“Clutch. The word you’re lookin for is _clutch_.” Chin up, chest out. Talkin shit. Not sure how he wandered so close to Sam.

“You gonna squawk or you gonna shoot pool?” Huff of air, on _pool_ , cools Dean’s lips.

Sam didn’t back up; that’s how—

Dean pivots. Pockets his next ball; white chases it in.

Sam mocks, “ _Master_ , he says. _Clutch_ , he—”

“I’m gettin a beer.”

Backed up against the bar, leaned on his elbows, Dean stares while Sam runs the table. Glides around. Forehead folds. Chalk tiny in his hand, tip of the cue. Round mouth puffs blue.

Ass in the shadows but Sam’s shirt rides up, bares his back and waistband on a stretch shot. He meets Dean’s gaze, rakes with his eyes. Bad lighting, hard to say, but he thinks Sam licks his lips.

All at once he’s got no reason to keep stuffing down all the aching, knotted _want_ that’s chewed him half his life. To _have_ Sam, back to him, home with him, end of the hunt. He snorts. Better have Cas check him for ovaries.

Sam weaves toward the bar. Waves, and by the time Dean works out why, Sam’s glued to him, ankle to shoulder. Wraps his arm around Dean while he gets his refill. Sam’s shirt smells like cheap dryer sheets and underneath… well he smells like Sam. Peppery. Library book scent clings to him these days. Hell of a nice change from their old smoke-choked bars.

Dean downs his beer. “Let’s get back, huh? Gotta get my working girl her beauty rest.”

Sam’s eyes roll, lips disappear. “Seriously, dude. It’s not gonna _start_ being funny.”

“You love it.”

Obviously. Because those pink cheeks, he can’t blame on the Heineken sign.

 

*

They fall into a routine, easy. Late nights and late breakfasts. Morning gameshows, second shifts. Spotty cash flow. Fifty Yard Line is less, working stiffs looking to unwind and more, college kids, crossing the tracks for cheap drinks.

Sunday afternoon, football packed. Dean’s working this smartass, trust-fund, “Oh, we had a pool table in our vacation house,” kind of meathead. Body blows. Dean drops a few games, keeps it close. Kitty grows; kid goes to the ATM.

His favorite beer appears. “Your boyfriend says you look thirsty.”

Dean blinks. “My…”

“Your—” waitress nods at the bar. “Oh.” Pales. “Is he not? I thought, you know, how he looks at you…” Mouth snaps shut. She gives him the once-over. “Can’t say I blame him, either way.”

Dean throws her a megawatt smile and takes his beer. “Thanks, sweetheart.” Tips the neck at Sam. Can’t read his face—seriously, the light in here—but Sam drinks with him.

“Double or nothin, kid,” Dean says. “One last chance, win your money back.”

Meathead lets him break. He makes it look good, he thinks. Summons a little Sammy cue-ball magic, lines up a string of cinch shots.

He’ll walk Sam back to the motel. Tuck underneath his arm, that was nice…

Ah, he shouldn’ta let his mind drift. Showoff shot, massé he’s made a million times pockets the eight. Automatic.

“Aw, come on, man!” Meathead slaps the table. “You’re tryin to hustle me!”

Chatter hushes. Heads turn.

“Hey, I know how it looks,” Dean tries. “I hit a hot streak. You never—?”

Back bends, butt of the cue zips past his nose. Dean plants on the table and kicks, midsection. Makes space. Meathead stumbles back, cue like a ball bat.

Yelling. Cussing. “Kick his ass!”

Sam casually makes his way in between Dean and the back door.

Dean circles. Can’t run off without that money. “Listen, man—” He jumps back, not quick enough. Stick glances off his sore ribs, gut churns.

Voices:

“Hey!”

“Come on!”

“That’s enough!”

May God bless bouncers.

Sam roots under his arm, lifts. Dean didn’t realize he’d gone down.

“Stake,” Dean groans, fire in his side.

Sam almost grins, flashes the wad in his fist, subtle. “Let’s get you outta here.”

Dean breathes. That hurts. He walks.

Meathead argues, “—’m tellin you, man, he’s a hustler!”

And the bouncer: “Listen, kid. He’s played in here every night this week and you’re the first guy’s had a problem.”

Sam holds on.

 

*

Long swig of cold beer and Dean wipes his face on his shirt. Chest clenches. Nothing makes him miss Bobby worse than a car repair.

He snakes under the hood, scrubs Baby’s engine. Not much else he can do. Auto glass guy pretty much wiped out Sam’s pay for the last week. Bright side, Meathead’s bankroll feeds em a while.

Which is good, cause they might oughta cool it with the pool hall. Whatever confidence possessed Dean, under that neon last night, bailed on him in the cold glare of the morning. Silence, over scrambled eggs. Not, awkward but… loaded.

_“Ball’s in your court, Dean.”_

Same as ever.

_“If you change your mind.”_

He’s got no script; that’s his problem. Dean Winchester can talk a nun out of her virtue, but he’s lost when it comes to his little—

“Ow!” Dean’s head bangs under the hood. “Sorry, Baby.” That’s gonna sprout a knot.

What was he thinking about?

Chuck! His fangirls musta wrote about how this goes down like, a zillion ways. Granted, if Becky and Marie are anything to go by, he better brace himself, but. Nothing going on, next few days. Sam’ll be working. Dean’ll have plenty of chances to cowboy up, get his laptop, get inspired.

 

*

Things that are fucked up:

He’s in a motel room, reading about himself, in a motel room, reading about himself, reading—Dean’s head hurts—Wincest. _Cute, girls._

They know more about his life for those five years, than freakin he does.

And seriously. These women are always putting him and Sam in a shitstorm. Shot, drowned, drugged, raped. Maimed, blamed, turned, possessed. Then there’s the magical roofies: sex hexed, truth spelled, love charmed, fairy dusted. Pretexting, like, “Oh, it’s the last room, Sammy, and there’s onnne tiiiiiny twin bed. Heater’s broke. Whatever will we do?”

Dean snorts.

They write good sex, though. Somebody’s always getting plowed, slow and deep and thorough. Coming without a hand, choking on dick. They love putting Dean in panties— _Thanks, Chuck. And… Rhonda_ —Sammy in heels, stretching those long, long legs.

So it’s not a waste. And he kinda likes this one—sub-genre, he guesses—where, him and Sam make like a couple for a case. Sounds fun: touching and sweet-talking Sam. Plus, plausible deniability. Just in case he’s got this all wrong.

Hardest part’s gonna be _finding_ the case. How many haunted gay bars, bus tours, and cruises can there be? He’ll find out soon enough, he guesses.

Dean shuts his laptop, not without hope. Sam gets paid today; they’ll be home in a week.

He’ll figure it out.

 


	2. The Lodge

“Mornin.” Dean pours egg whites in the skillet. Butter sings. “How’s your gutshot?” Goddamn werewolves. He’s still carrying that bullet in his duffel. Thinks he might make a keyring out of it.

Sam’s still pale. “Pretty well healed.” Moves like his old self, maybe a tick slow.

Damn, they miss Cas.

“Good.” Dean meets him at the table with coffee. “Caught us a case, if you’re up for it.” Finger-combs fresh-washed hair. “Straight-up haunting, looks like.” He’s ninety-nine percent Sam leans into it. “I mean, we got zip on Lucifer, less on Amara, so…”

“Sure.”

Dean thumps a folder on the table. “Camp Dixon. Sort of a, survival course for sissies.”

Sam thumbs the cover. “Is this a… case file?”

“Fuckin-a.”

“You could have emailed—”

“Huh-uh.” Dean heads back to the stove. “There was this mass murder back in the seventies.” Plates whole wheat toast and turkey bacon. “You know, some folks say it inspired the whole, eighties-camp-slasher thing; how cool is that?” He points. “Real-life _Friday the 13th_ right there.”

Sam’s head snaps up, wary look. Dean squints but Sam’s eyes dart away.

Okay… “Anyway,” he powers on, “they reopened this year. Had a run of bad luck, freak accidents. Then a coupla days ago, the main lodge caught fire.”

“Sounds ghosty to me,” Sam says.

“Yup.” Dean slides Sam’s plate in front of him. “Look of those crime scene photos, there’ll be remains all over those woods.”

“Sounds like a treat.” Tic in his jaw. “I thought you hated camping.”

“Well…” Dean takes a seat. “I believe this is more what the youngsters would call, _glamping_.” Sock-feet spar under the table. “There’ll be some hiking, though. You sure—”

“Yeah.” Sam nods. “Good for me. Get me some exercise.”

“Weirdo.” Dean scoops grape jelly on his scrambled eggs. “Anyway, let’s fuel up, roll out, huh?”

Sam acts grossed out. “Works for me.”

 

*

Eastbound. Kansas wheat waves gold ahead. Sun slants through the windshield, highlights Sam’s flannel fuzz, hunter’s halo. Baby purrs; Dean drums the wheel.

Sam scours the case file. “Uh. Dean?” Like he’s choosing carefully. “You know this, survival thing you enrolled us in—”

“Uh-huh…” Here it comes.

“—is for couples.”

“I know.” Dean bluffs anxious. “I meant to say something—”

“You’re cool with it?”

Dean shrugs. “I mean. We’ve pretended to be weirder shit than gay.”

“Because, we could wait,” Sam says.

“What?”

“This camp’s running a family retreat in like, three weeks. We could just go as broth—”

“No!”

Sam shrinks.

“I mean…” Dean coughs. “This ghost, it ain’t gettin any less pissed off. And, nobody’s died yet. Nothin worse than broken bones so far. But this fire…”

“It’s escalating.”

“Yup,” Dean says. “So I say, let’s get out in front of this thing. Take a chance to bat a thousand for once.”

Sam squints.

“I got somethin in my teeth or what?” He curls his lips.

Sam sighs, dramatic.

“Look,” Dean says, “I figure we can… tell as much of the truth as possible; just, smudge it up around the edges.” Share their sleeping bags. Cop feels. Ogle, praise, and handle Sam, all he wants.

“And we’ll keep that up, for a week, during—” Sam shuffles papers, “‘intensive group and private sessions, aimed at deepening your understanding and connection with each other.’”

“Sure!”

“And if we fuck it up, let slip we’re brothers?”

“We’ll tell em the truth.” Dean shrugs. “You’re adopted, Sammy, I’m so sorry; this must come as such a shock—”

Backhand to his ribs.

Dean grins. “Anyway, you should get comfy. We got a haul in front of—Hey, pass me _Skynyrd’s Innyrds_ , willya?”

Smile tugs Sam’s mouth. Shirt rides up, pale ribs as he digs in the floorboard. He pops up, oversells sour. “ _Skynyrd’s Innyrds_.”

Dean cranks it.

 

*

Antiseptic stings his nose. Cheery yellow wallpaper under serene paintings: flowers, trees, and streams. Sam thumbs brochures, headlined _Quality Care_ and _Golden Years_. Dean picks lint off his tie.

“Y’all here for Sheriff Voss?” An aide appears, shows them to a day room. Old-timers in tracksuits watch TV, play cards—some with people Dean can’t see. The aide points, “By the window.” Warns, “He’s having one of his better days, but if y’all upset—”

“He’ll have our full respect,” Sam soothes. “He’s a brother officer. A hero, the way we’ve heard.”

She nods.

Sheriff Carl Voss sits tall in his wheelchair, whip-thin and weathered. Full head of silver hair. Polo shirt and summer slacks. House shoes.

Sam opens, “Sheriff Voss?”

They flash badges.

“Agents,” Voss says. “Please, have a seat.”

They grab chairs.

“I can’t offer you nothin,” old man shakes his head. “Cup a-water from that cooler over there.” He hooks a thumb. “My wife, rest her soul, woulda scorned my manners these days.”

Dean grins. Good old boy.

Sam’s face lights. “No, thank you, sir. You’re doing us a favor just by talking to us.”

“I can’t say as I can help you men. Mind ain’t what it used to be…”

Sam treads careful. “What… do you remember about the murders at Camp Dixon?”

Sheriff’s open, friendly face shuts down. “Just the one thing, you won’t find in the paperwork.”

Dean likes him.

“It wasn’t Dinah.” Steady eyes, firm jaw. “She was a good girl. Honor student.” Scars of old horror. “She killed her friends, sure as I’m alive, but I shot that girl. And she didn’t flinch. Run off into them woods. I’s so shocked I just stood there. Stump, my deputy, took off after her…”

Tears well. Fists clench and release.

“You need a break, Sheriff?” Dean asks.

He shakes his head. Full-body wince. Eyes open, vacant stare back forty years. “I followed the blood. Time I got there, she was down and Stump was over her.”

“Did you experience anything weird?”

Voss looks affronted.

Sam ducks. “I mean, did you smell anything? Maybe, sulfur?”

Head shakes.

“Feel any cold, see lights or colors? Anything out of place…”

“Black.” Voss squints, middle distance again. Breathes fast and shallow.

“That’s good,” Sam says. “Black. Smoke? Or. Maybe it was, goo?”

Voss leans forward, knuckles white on his chair arms. “What the hell’s happenin out here, Stump?!”

Heads turn.

“Sammy…”

“Sheriff Voss?” Sam pleads.

Visible brawl with himself, back to the here-and-now.

“Just one more thing.”

The old man breathes deep, meets Sam’s eyes.

“What was your best day? On the job?”

Voss blinks. “I-uh… I brought a missin girl back to her mama. Her-uh… other mama, pulled her outta school; child weren’t never in no danger but the look on that woman’s face…” Old man grins. Deep lines crease his eyes. “Little girl climbed outta my cruiser and run up on that porch.”

Dean nods at Sam. Kid’s a fucking genius. “Thank you, sir. You’ve been extremely helpful.”

“If you think of anything else…” Sam offers a business card.

Voss takes it. “Say. Why you boys lookin at Camp Dixon anyway? Don’t tell me somebody’s…”

“Jake and Nora Wallace. Re-opened the place this year.”

Sheriff looks pained. “Wallace. I met them kids. Knew their granddaddy well. Old man never was the same after…”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “That kind of tragedy, nobody ever is.”

 

*

Clatter of plates, sizzles, pork fat smells. Gold-flecked, faintly greasy Formica and floor tiles. Red vinyl booths and barstools.

“So,” Dean chews on an onion ring. “Demon possesses girl. Girl kills friends. Sheriff shoots girl…” Palms up, “Then what?”

Loose tie. Hair peeks out Sam’s collar. “Demon escapes, you would think.” He squeezes lemon on a fish fillet.

“Then, what’s it still doing here? Or, back here?”

Sam shrugs. “Maybe it’s not. Girl kills friends, friends’ ghosts wake up when the camp reopens?”

Doorbell chimes. Conversations hush around them. Dean chin-points.

Sam pops his back to get a look. “I’ve seen him.”

“Jake Wallace,” Dean mumbles. “Camp’s wilderness guide.”

Jake orders takeout, fidgets at the counter. Chilly reception. Waitress feigns sympathy, but the patrons stinkeye, distaste all the way to outright rage. Whispers, “arrogant,” and “sorry.”

Jake grabs his bag, avoids eye contact on his way out.

“Y’all doin all right?” Their waitress, Tammy, brings refills.

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “That guy, just left. What’s his deal?”

“Who, Jake? Nice fella, good tipper.” Diplomatic.

“He’s an idiot, is what he is.” Overalled old-timer hunches at the counter. Growls in his coffee, “Granddaddy’s rollin in his grave—”

Cook speaks up, “Now Stump, you stifle that talk.”

Brothers eye each other.

“Please,” Sam says. “I’d like to hear your story.”

Stump spins on his stool. Guy earned his nickname. Sawed-off, barrel-chested and block-headed. Close-trimmed gray fringe, shiny bald top. Bulldog jaws. “Camp Dixon’s cursed; it’s bad ground.”

“Whaddaya mean?” Dean asks.

Stump shrugs. “Indians, used to live around here, they knew it. Always done dances and blessings.”

“I mean it,” cook interrupts. “You quit carryin them tales.”

Stump barely pauses. “Somewhere along the line, white men undone what they’d done. When the town first settled, men tried to homestead, farm out there. Wouldn’t nothin never grow. Wells soured, cattle died.”

“Now that’s enough.” Cook gestures for a busboy. Big. “You’re gonna ruin that man’s business.”

Stump springs up. “I can’t ruin what he don’t have!” He wags a finger. “And he don’t have no business runnin a camp out there with that… that thing in them woods!” Busboy approaches. Stump throws down crumpled bills. “Wallace’ll find out. Y’all will too.” He storms out.

Quiet locals all around, but, if Dean reads them right, they all pretty much agree with Stump.

After they eat, “You know what? Let’s drink some beers, just chill tonight.”

“Right,” Sam grins. “Survival training starts tomorrow.”

Dean nods. Toes Sam’s shin under the table. Calls for the check.

 

*

Baby’s born for drives like this. Highway wide, blacktop smooth. Big sweeping arcs and tall hills, lift in his stomach on crests. Sheer, layered sand- and limestone where the road blasts through. Hardwood trees blanket the slopes.

“Only thing I’m still worried about is weapons,” Sam says.

Dean shrugs. “Shotguns in bedrolls, bless all the water we collect.”

“Yeah…” Sam makes notes. “I’ve been thinking about, ‘bad ground,’ like… Well, we’ve been working the devil’s gate theory, but, what if it’s fairies?”

“Ooo, good call!” Dean smacks his thigh. “We’ll grab iron outta the trunk.“

Off the main road maybe a half mile, two-lane chip-and-seal criss-crosses a gravel side road. _WELCOME TO CAMP DIXON_ sign arches above. Asphalt courts for hoops and tennis spread out to their left. Soccer and baseball fields right. Parking lot. Carport off one side, couple of golf carts and a beat-up S10. Water tower dominates a corner.

Right at the entrance, a silver BMW roadster.

Dean pulls in the next space, hooks a thumb. “Nice wheels for camping.”

Sam grins.

They grab duffels and head for the lodge. Shotgun style. Steep-pitched roof with dormers, loads of windows. Contrast, corner of his eye, just past the tree line. Dirt path forks left, off from the main lodge. Leads to a cluster of whitewashed cabins.

“Total glamping,” Dean mutters.

Sam bumps him. “We’re gonna sleep, in tents, for two whole nights, Dean. This is serious!” One-dimple smirk.

Three steps up to a rough, wraparound porch. Wheelchair ramp looks new.

 _CAMP MESS_ \- Neatly carved but weathered sign above glass crash doors.

Dean takes stock: Main entrance, here. Back double doors straight ahead, past loveseats, rockers, and ottomans. Batwings to his right shield the kitchen, surely an out that way. Fire exits, far end. Column of picnic tables. Foosball, pool, and ping pong.

Mr. Beemer, Dean guesses. Thirties, six feet, longish hair. Plaid shorts and a pink polo. Boat shoes, no socks. “… probably get you a good deal, given the volume…” talking to Nora Wallace.

Nora glances over. “Excuse me.” Shuttered relief. “Y’all must be Sam and Dean.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam says. Throws an arm across Dean’s shoulders.

Heart rate kicks.

Ponytail swings. “Nora Wallace.” Prettier in person. Jeans snug on a world-class ass. T-shirt, apron, Chuck Taylors. “Peyton and Hamilton Bookbinder—”

“Call me Ham.” Salesman smooth.

“Sam and Dean Smith,” she says.

Everyone handshakes.

Peyton got a whole, Sporty Spice thing going. Tennis-looking outfit, gleaming shoes, sunvisor, sweater tied around her neck. She sips on a Diet Coke; thin smile sticks to her lips.

“Welcome,” Nora offers seats around a huge stone fireplace. Cold, this time of day, but they’ll love it at breakfast. “Y’all get comfy. I’ve gotta finish lunch, but y’all holler if you need anything.”

Dean drops in a rocking chair, kicks his feet up. Sam frowns, knocks his feet off the ottoman, puts his butt there. In between Dean’s knees. Dean grins. Sits up, drapes his wrists on Sam’s wide shoulders. Sam tenses, just a flash. Kinda, squishes Dean’s hand with his cheek.

“What do you guys do?” Sam asks, cause the key to the con is to keep _them_ talking.

Ham works at his father’s mattress store. Peyton’s a trained accountant, but, young children, part-time, blah blah—

Movement, out on the porch. Two college kids roll in. “Hey, are we in the right place?” girl asks. Purple hair, skinny jeans, nose ring.

“Couples’ survival.” Peyton sing-songs. Mutters, “Lofty promise, you ask me.”

Squint. “I’m Kai.”

“Justin.” Beanpole. Textbook hipster. Too-groomed beard, man bun, cargo shorts and good boots. Wallet on a chain.

Dean stifles an eye-roll.

From behind them, “Hold the door, please!” Wheels rumble over boards. Curses and grunts.

“I told you you overdid it.” Male voice, lightly mocking.

“It’s survival, Sy. I brought everything I thought I might need!”

“Rita…” Chuckle.

Rita, forties, bumps through the door, dragging a suitcase Kai could ride in. Ballcap over short brown hair. Calf-length pants and a sweater set. She drops dramatically on a plush chair.

“Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Simon Lazcano.” Five-ten, black hair, brown skin. Filipino, probably, given the surname. “You’ve met my wife Rita.” Fond amusement.

“Make fun of me all you want. I’ll be laughing when I save your ass out there.” She points to the woods. Diamond like a ping pong ball. Pink nails shimmer.

“Sure thing, Bear Grylls.” Simon whips out a vape and goes to town, grinning.

Behind him, steel shutters roll up. “Lunch is served!” Nora says. Cafeteria counter heaves with chicken strips, tater skins, taquitos… “My brother Jake’ll be down in a minute, talk y’all through the week.” Pigs in a blanket, corn fritters, apples wrapped in bacon?

Dean’s stomach growls. Sam eyes him.

The whole camp surrounds a giant picnic table. Sam crowds him, bumps with a shoulder. Does some obscene tongue shit to a hot spinach dip.

Ham’s a talker, so is Kai. But Rita—mother of five, and so Midwestern Italian Dean wouldn’t be shocked if she pulled pasta out of her purse—she spins a yarn.

“Simon basically dared me to come here.”

He elbows her. “All I said was, if you couldn’t handle it—”

“See?”

“—we’d do a cushy vacation instead.”

“And all I said was, I wanna go someplace where our phones don’t work.” Rita stabs a cheese stick into marinara. “I’m ready.”

Dean declares the Lazcanos, all right.

Kai’s here for the counseling, some kind of grad school project. “And, since we met a year ago at a zombie race…” She nudges Justin.

“Ohhh, it’s your anniversary?” Rita squeaks.

“Oh no,” Kai grins. “He was dating someone else back then. We hooked up six—”

“Four months ago,” Justin says.

“Wait,” Peyton leans in, “you don’t… agree?”

Kai sighs, well-practiced, “There were about two months, where we were hanging out all the time but not having sex.”

Awkward.

Peyton makes it worse. “Our marriage counselor sent us.” Eyes cut toward Ham. “Thought we should, ‘tackle a challenge together.’”

Their turn. Nobody rubbernecks, but, ‘what-about-you-guys?’ hangs in the air.

“We spent time around here,” Sam says, “hunting, when we were kids.”

Yes, good, smart, Sammy—wait. They did hunt around here. Some kinda goblin, he remembers right.

“…grew up together?” Rita’s voice hits a whole new octave.

“Yeah.” A little pink in the neck, Sam says, “That was our thing. Hunting trips.”

Now that’s what Dean calls smudging.

Jake heads for their table, stack of papers in his arms and a double-take for Sam and Dean. “Welcome to Camp Dixon.” Easy, corporate polite. Brown hair like his sister, high forehead. He hands out schedules and maps.

Dean digs the kinda, old-school lodge vibe. Dark-stained wood, pale walls, red cloth. Mounted game—deer, mountain lion, coupla fish—looks older than he is.

Sam’s arm curls warm around his waist. Dean glances; Sam studies his paperwork, totally casual.

Fine.

Dean scoots in, drops a palm on Sam’s thigh, scratches his jeans seam. Basks in Sam’s soft gasp.

Jake drones about safety, sanitation, hydration. “There’s landlines in all the cabins,” he’s saying, “and one here in the lodge. Directory’s in your packet. We’re small enough this week, that you’ll each have your own—”

Dean’s ears perk up.

“—so please feel free to-ah,” dark chuckle, “reconfigure…”

 

*

Bunk beds.

Dean stares.

Sam shoves past. “We’ve got a couple of hours before the cookout…”

So much for smooth stealth-snuggling. Wee hours, rubbing up on Sam, seeing if Sam rubbed back…

“…take a nap.”

Cabin 5, end of a horseshoe pointed back towards the woods. Cute little digs, besides the bed thing. Unfinished walls, bare-raftered ceiling. Handful of beat-up chairs, side table and washstand.

Hope flares when Sam starts taking a bunk apart.

“Help me with this, willya?”

Dean snaps to.

“At least we don’t have to sleep together,” Sam mutters, and, Dean’s… confused? Sam eyes him. “You’re gonna make yours a double too, right?”

Oh. “Yeah…”

They turn their four bunks into two improv kings. Sam flops across his with a sigh.

Dean sulks.

 

*

Jake and Nora golf-cart them to the lakeshore. Well-worn gravel path, reasonably smooth. Sam keeps that arm around him. Knees, hips, and ribs jostle and bump.

Downhill, old hardwoods break for a man-made beach. All new construction: picnic shelter and fire pit. Bathhouse. Wooden piers stretch off the shore, one diving board and one lifeguard stand. Buoyed ropes mark swimming zones.

Jake directs traffic while Nora unloads catering tubs. “Dinner’s in what, an hour?”

Nora nods.

“We’ve got towels in the bathhouse,” Jake says. “Chairs, floats, cabanas. Y’all make yourselves comfortable.”

Campers fan out, and Dean takes the chance to slip away, scan for EMF. Picks his way through light brush, covers his tracks. Not a blink on the meter.

Ears perk up. Somebody (-thing?) crashes his way. Dean ducks behind a stout, double-trunk maple and waits. Hissing. Weird, fruit smell, sick-sweet. He draws his holy flask and an iron knife, all the heat he’s packing.

CLICK!

Sounds like a lighter. Smells like—

Simon coughs and Dean breaks cover. Motherfucker jumps half a foot in the air. “Jesus, Dean, you scared the shit outta me.” He tokes his blunt. “Some kind of ninja shit,” he mutters. “Want some?”

Dean shakes his head. “Uh, nah. Thanks though.”

Simon puffs. “What are you doing out here?”

Cover story he stole straight out of fanfic. “Gettin the lay of the land.” Skeeviest grin. “The great outdoors, y’know.” He rocks his hips. “Personal favorite.”

“Wow.” Simon nods. “Right on, man.” No follow-up.

Dean takes the win. “I should get back though.”

“Sure, sure. Anyone wants a hit…” Simon holds up the blunt.

“I’ll tell em to find you.”

Dean runs EMF back toward the picnic shelter. Still clean. Anybody ever died bloody here, they’ve found peace.

Bathhouse notwithstanding, he ain’t about to get sand all in his ass before he eats. He grabs a Coke, parks at a table. Jake builds a fire in the pit while Nora loads a grill. Sam’s sucked into kid pics with the moms, looks like. Cluster of sand chairs under a blue umbrella. Kai and Justin chase each other, dunk and splash between the piers.

Simon slides in next to him. “Hey, Dean.”

“Hey.”

“I owe you an apology, for earlier. I spend half my time in California; I forget—”

“Hey you do you, man,” Dean says. “Ain’t for me, but I don’t judge.”

Simon grins. “More people should have that attitude.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll drink to that.” He knocks back a swallow.

Down on the beach, Sam laughs. Hits Dean every time how rare that is. Sam glances, double-takes. Wide grin falters, shy, and Dean tips his can.

Ham saunters over, straddles the picnic bench across from Dean. Nods toward shore. “Looks like our hens are nesting.”

Dean smirks into his soda.

“Oooo, I wouldn’t say that in front of Rita,” Simon says. “She’ll peck your eyes out.”

Ham chuckles. “So. What do you guys do?”

“Market research.”

Dean misses the rest of Simon’s spiel. Sam’s arms cross, fingers hook his shirt hem. Biceps flex and expose hip grooves, six-pack, nipples. Oblique muscles stretch. Shaggy head pops out the neck.

“Oh-uh, we run a nonprofit,” Dean recites.

“That’s cool,” Simon says. “What kind of work?”

“It’s a research institute.” Blush tickles. “Folklore and mythology. Kind of a family business.” Damn, he needs another drink. He shakes his can. “Anyone?”

Ham and Simon pass. Dean heads for the cooler, over where Nora tends charcoal.

“You need a hand with that?”

“What? Oh. No!” She waves him off. “You go relax.”

Dean smiles. “Just seems like you and Jake’s havin all the fun. Startin all the fires.”

“Well, we pamper you tonight, cause we kick your butt in the morning.” She brandishes two-foot tongs. “Now shoo.”

“Yes ma’am.” Dean nods.

Sam climbs toward the pavilion. Dean grabs him a water and meets him where the sand ends. Broad grin, and Sam bumps Dean’s fingers, taking the sweaty bottle. Twists the cap and tips it up. Stretched neck, shiny skin. Dean’s tongue goes sandpaper.

“Thanks.” Sam swipes his mouth.

Dean locks on task. “You get anything?” But to make it look good… “From the women?” He slots up against Sam.

“Nah,” quick head-shake. “EMF?” Sam grabs his waist and jerks him in. Hips collide and Dean gasps.

“Clean.”

Sam flashes a sweet-nothing smile. “So now what?”

Dean palms circles on his warm, bare chest. “Kick back til tonight, I guess. Not like we can—”

“Dinner’s in fifteen, gang!” Jake hollers. “Y’all come set the tables!”

Sam nods.

 

*

Nora calls the game, Rescued at Sea.

“Clang-clang!” Dean yells. Bobs around in hip-deep water, waves his arms. “Clang-clang!” He’s a buoy.

Sam does the same, but honestly, Dean questions his commitment to buoy-dom.

Peyton, waist deep and blindfolded, creeps toward the beach.

Ham calls directions. “Watch the jellyfish, babe! Head right—no, your right! First Base! Good! Quick-quick!”

Jake the jellyfish passes harmlessly behind her. Holds his line till he bumps the boundary, swims off in a new direction.

Rita hunkers near the beach. She and Simon splash, rocks in the crashing waves. Nora, Kai, and Justin splash too. They’re the seaside cliffs.

Strong winds roll heavy waves. Peyton’s soggy ponytail points like a weather vane.

“Peyton, honey, you’re doing great! Just keep walking!” Ham yells. “Cheat to the left, all right? You’re coming up on a buoy!”

Dean kicks the volume up. “CLANG-CLANG!” Sam laughs at him, but Sam can shut up.

Ham wasn’t lying; Peyton is doing great. Making good time, just outside Dean’s reach.

“That’s my girl. Come on, babe!”

And a huge wave, just, swamps her. Knocks her sideways, damn near rolls her under. Dean sticks out his arm and—

Velvety, “My hero.” Peyton pulls her blindfold off.

“My pleasure,” Dean says.

And, from shore, “Aw, come on! That’s cheating, right?”

“Thank you,” breaks like glass.

“Duuude, you loooose,” Simon says.

And Ham goes, “Fuck you.”

“I’m not,” Peyton nods at the beach, “all that used to being rescued.”

Dean sets her on her feet. Wants to say something, but—

“Time to rotate!” Nora yells.

Simon and Rita replace him and Sam as buoys; Kai and Justin become rocks. Ham and Peyton take over as seaside cliffs with Nora. Dean posts up onshore, and Sam gets the blindfold.

“Sammy, you ready?”

Clangs and splashes.

Nora says, “Go!”

“All right.” Dean claps his hands. “Come about ten paces towards me.” Clap, clap. Sam listens, follows.

Jellyfish Jake zig-zags between the boundary ropes, silent and slow.

“Wait right there!” Dean yells. “Matter-fact, take you a giant-step back.”

Jake misses, by a mile.

“Now,” Dean thinks he can do this in four moves. “Turn to your two, and go six paces.” Brings Sam in splashing distance of the seaside cliff team. “Come toward me, quick.” He claps again. Sam makes good time.

“This, CLANG-CLANG,” Rita hollers, “is fucking ridiculous. CLANG-CLANG!”

Dean laughs. Just gotta get Sam around Justin and they’re home free.

“All right, Sammy, cut to your nine. About six paces…” Sam lumbers through knee-deep waves. Black swim trunks cling and wrinkle. Easy posture, trusting. Knocks Dean backwards. “Right there!” Pulls himself together. “Nine again, ten paces tops. You got this.”

Sam stumbles onto dry sand. Dean grabs, spins him and soaks in his laugh. Sam’s tongue flicks out. Fingers curl behind Dean’s neck and his mouth moves—

Rita catcalls. Dean burns, sideswipes. Slides their cheeks together, lets Sam breathe in his ear.

 

*

Sunset. Firelight casts the campers in orange. They roast marshmallows. Play some kinda, relationship bingo. Squares are like, “Met online,” and, “Honeymooned in Niagara Falls.” Him and Sam: road tripped more than a week, knew each other since childhood, broke up and got back together (Sam’s call; Dean about choked), spent a night stargazing—

“Hold up!” Rita says, marshmallow flaming on a stick. “Details. I’m cashing in.”

“On that?” Simon blows the fire out.

“Will you look at them?” She stage whispers. “I wanna picture this.”

Sam blushes. Dean grins. Licks his lips.

She pantomimes a heart attack. Simon quietly turns her burnt marshmallow into a s’more. Which he starts eating.

When she spots him, “What the hell.”

He shrugs.

Rita hmphs, gets another marshmallow. “Details.” Points at Dean. “You’re not off the hook.”

Sammy saves him. “Kinda been a while, now that I think about it, but, we used to—”

“Pick a clear night,” Dean says.

“Pack this old cooler.” Sam shoulders into him. Inside-joke smile.

“Hop in the car and take off,” Dean finishes.

“That sick Impala we saw coming in?” Kai asks.

Dean nods.

Rita hums.

“Dean, was, so good—”

Peyton coughs.

“At finding empty fields.” Sam squints. “Or, riversides. Places with no lights.”

“Go on…” Rita leans so far forward her chair tips.

“We’d, drink beers, sit on the hood, just quiet.”

Sam pretty much nailed it.

“And?” Kai, wide-eyed grin.

“And, I’m a gentleman.” Dean folds his arms.

Sam wags eyebrows at him.

Choir of groans.

Game keeps the campers talking, telling their low-stakes secrets. Sam leans on him, huge and warm. Nibbles a s’more with his pinkies up.

“Dude, you’ve got—” chocolate, smeared on his upper lip.

Sam licks. Curls his tongue and sweeps. “I get it?”

No. Dean’s stomach swoops. “Here.” Almost pulls back, but, “Let me…” Pad of his thumb tugs Sam’s skin. Mustache stubble rasps. Sam takes his chocolate back, some kinda mouth contortion that ain’t quite a kiss or suck but’s somehow both. Dean’s dick jumps, goosebumps and Sam’s eyes glitter.

“Bingo!” Kai squeaks.

“Ugh!” Rita throws her card on the fire. “We were so close!”

Dean’s pulse thunders.

 

*

He’s still thinking about stargazing, back-floating and staring up at a fat moon, waxing. Thin clouds. Sam swims lazy laps. Women act like they’re not watching. Women plus Justin, Dean should say, not that it’s his business. Ham wandered off with Simon, even money hitting that vape. Jake and Nora cleaned up from supper and now occupy lounge chairs.

Dean kicks; swivels his shoulders and flips. Swims for the lifeguard pier.

Sam cuts through the water like Jaws himself, on Dean’s four, intercept. Dean pulls up, treads. Sam slows down and whips. Long hair sticks to his cheek. Lashes wet and clumpy. Glowing, shimmering off the water.

“No dunking, Sammy.” Drifting closer.

“Dean,” he oversells offended, “we are grown men.”

“Yeah which you always forget when you get wet.” Dean lunges. Sam jukes and Dean clips him. Sam recoils. _Shit_. “You okay? Did I get you?”

Flash. Sam goes from holding his wounded side to hooking Dean’s waist and plunging him under. Dean pops up, sputters.

“Poor Dean.” Arms, still around him. “Sooo gullible.” Chest, pressed to Dean’s back.

“That’s low, man.” Dean shivers. “Exploiting my—”

“Pathological overprotectiveness?” in his ear.

Sure. Sam don’t let go he’s gonna have a situation in his swim trunks.

“Hey, gang?” Nora yells from shore. “First ride’s headed back. Who’s on board?”

Him and Sam need to compare satellite photos to camp maps. Pack their weapons. Bank sleep, be long nights from here on out. Half-assed dry-off and they load the cart.

Rita joins them. “Simon’ll come back when he wants. Or, he’ll get stoned and pass out in the woods; it’s his vacation too.”

“You’re a very understanding woman, Rita,” Dean says.

“I have five kids. I count successful days as no one’s bleeding.”

Dean can relate.

“Hey, Nora,” Sam leans forward. “You and Jake, obviously, did a lot of work to the lodge, and the lake back there.”

“Looks great too,” Rita says. “That beach house shower is nicer than my master.”

Nora chuckles. “Thank you.”

“So how bout the rest of the property? What are we walking into tomorrow?” Sam prods.

Nora flashes a grin. “We left it as wild as possible,” she says, “other than Hilltop, where y’all are bunked, and the lakeshore.”

Sam offers to help unload the trailer. Carrying catering tubs through the side door, Dean scouts. Massive dishwasher, straight outta the Space Race. Stove’s an antique too, and a monster. Six—no, eight burners, grill and griddle. Four fuckin ovens. Rolling shutters, closed to the dining room. Walk-in freezer, cooler, pantry. Sheer force of habit, he scans for salt.

Rita hijacks Nora, turns the talk to food.

“No, but…” Dean participates. “Come on, now…” When he can get a word in. “Listen. I stand by Campbell’s cream of celery. You need a white sauce, why would you fuck with fresh cream?”

Gasp. “You, wash your mouth out with soap!” Rita hisses.

“For the soup or the eff word?” Dean smirks.

Her return gesture makes clear, she meant the soup.

 

*

Sam lays out everything they have on their cabin floor. Backlit. Hair falls in his face as he takes stock. “So we know the murders happened at a campsite called,” he picks up two sheets, “Wet and Wild.” Circles behind Dean, points at a satellite image. “I’m betting right there.”

Dean’s kinda sunburned. Shoulders tingle, where Sam leans against him. “So what’s this then?” He takes the other page.

“Trail map, from the police files. It’s a photocopy of a deputy’s sketch, but…” Hand trails down Dean’s arm.

“Well I say we check it out.”

“Now?”

“Look. Ain’t more than, what, a half a mile? And half-a that’s golf cart path, so…” Dean springs up. “We gank this sucker tonight, it’s a new world record.”

“Noooo, no it isn’t,” Sam stuffs flashlights, weapons into a bag. “That, will forever be the hot waitress who vamped out on you.”

“Dude!” They’d agreed to never speak of that again! Well, Dean agreed.

“In town sixty-three minutes.” Hilarity. “Good thing one of us had the right weapon—”

“Okay, you know what? Eat me.”

“Oh, she tried!”

 

*

They find the trailhead easy enough. Hard to get too lost with a big-ass lake for a landmark. Mist lays over the water, thick.

Sawed-offs strapped and blades drawn, they track an old footpath. Blaze young trees and climb over dead ones. Grass is a foot tall where daylight penetrates. Creeping ivy climbs pine trunks, vines roped thick as a baby’s arm at the base.

Dean’s EMF blips from his pocket. Hand goes up; Sam halts behind him. Dean fishes the gauge out, passes it back. Sam’s machete whisks into its sheath. Close on his six. LED’s flicker in his peripheral.

They should be right on top of—there! Water’s edge, overgrown, Dean spots the old beach. EMF goes nuts. Ruins of a boathouse, weather-worn and part collapsed. He sweeps his flashlight up the bank. Bathhouse, row of busted cabins.

Missing or rusted window screens. Tumbled steps. Roofs fallen in—hell—one’s got a tree grown through it. Fourth in the line’s just… gone.

Dean nods Sam toward the shore, makes for the cabins. Sickly, gap-toothed smile looms over him. Bare spot looks burned-out, up close. Rusted, twisted metal. Extra rich dirt. Maybe a bed frame, choked with ivy. Dean probes with his blade tip, shines his light around.

Hollers. Icy finger rakes his spine. Full-body shudder. “Sammy?” No cold spot. He draws his gun.

Sam’s light bobs up from the beach. “What’s wrong?”

“I dunno.” Now he feels like an idiot. Eyes dart, shoulders roll. He prods the ground around his feet. He looks for ectoplasm, sulfur, tracks…

He bumps something in the dirt. Squats; Sam covers him. “Book.” Leather-bound, vellum (God, he hopes). Filthy as hell but intact. Dean hands it off.

Sam, penlight in his teeth, flips through the pages. Dean glances. One eye sweeps with his shotgun.

“This is Greek,” Sam says, “but—”

“Let me guess. Shitty dialect.”

“Naturally.” Sam slips the book in his pack. “We could break into the lodge, get online.”

Dean checks his watch. “Eh, let’s save that for tomorrow.”

“You think we can wait?”

Echo of that shivery thing. “Sure,” Dean lies. Sam’s still not a hundred percent. Can’t be keeping him out all night.

Sam stretches. Little patch of hair under his belly button. Ridge of his hips. Silvery moon washes him out.

They make good time, back to Hilltop. Organize their case files, use the washstand. Sam sprawls across his improv king, bare shoulders and blue boxers. Dean wonders whether Sam would kick him out, if he dragged another bunk over.

Double-checks salt lines.

Cuts off the lights.

 

 


	3. The Lost

They Noah’s Ark it down the now-familiar golf cart path from the lodge. Sam sticks close, elbows overlap and shoulders bump. Great day, not too hot yet. Sun tingles on Dean’s neck.

Jake diverts them at the same spot from last night. Dean clenches. If Jake sees where him and Sam marked up the trail…

Exhale. Jake leads uphill, away from the water. Easier path too, well used. Jake sets a lazy pace. Pauses. Points out native trees and bird calls, one nasty patch of poison oak.

Top of a hill, leaves swish in a weird-cold breeze. Whole column shivers. Dean swears and Sam asks, “Did you—?”

“What, the fuck.” Ham scratches his neck.

Everybody yelps, in fact, except Justin. Kid sure looks green though.

Dean breathes out. Still no cold spot. No smell of sulfur, no… funky shit at all, outside of that book.

Jake gets them moving again.

Sam looms. “Was that… anything?”

Head shakes. “I dunno, man.” Something, back of his mind, or, tip of his tongue… “Just, keep your eyes peeled.”

“Copy that.”

Dean falls back, covers Sam’s six. Worn-out jeans, frayed at the hems. Broad shoulders strain under pack straps. No sign of pain, fatigue—not that it’s been strenuous so far. He sneaks peeks at his EMF, quiet. Tall weeds and low shrubs line the trail edge. Sweat bees, flies, and mosquitoes dog him.

Barely a mile and not much climbing lead to a rustic campsite. Up on a bald knob, bare dirt from feet and tents. Split-log benches surround a fire ring. Backpacks thump the ground. Dean digs into poles for their Camp Dixon-issued two-man tent; Sam unfolds the canvas.

Jake puts them to work, fetching wood and water, dangling food stores from high branches. Down the hill, a spectacular clear stream twists and tumbles through the brush. Lime and sandstone polished smooth. Dean fills canteens, his and Sam’s. Peyton fights with some kind of filter contraption while Justin fills scavenged milk jugs, budget fire buckets.

Little compound turns out downright civilized. Circle of tents with bright orange rainflies. Bedrolls laid in, fire pyramid. All they’ll have to do is light a match, once the bugs get bad.

Cold lunch of jerky and trail mix. Sam eats black raspberries they collected trailside. Dark juice stains his tongue. “You want some?”

“Only between flaky crusts.”

Dimples.

 

*

Nora puts them in a horseshoe, hands out flipbooks. Big, like for artists’ sketches. Climbs on an empty bench. “Are you ready, campers?”

“Ready, Nora!” Simon shouts.

Rita facepalms. Dean can’t even be mad; the guy’s so sincere. Men shake their heads and the women giggle.

“That’s the spirit, Simon,” Nora says.

He nods. Zero shame.

“Okay. So, Jake, is gonna take the younger half of each pair—who is that?”

Hands go up. Sammy, Peyton, Kai… and Simon.

Dang.

Woulda been hilarious if Sammy’da made Team Wives. Dean smirks. Sam elbows him. He didn’t even say anything!

Nora: “Y’all go with Jake, up the trail a ways. We’ll get your partners’ answers and bring you right back.”

Jake says, “Let’s do this,” and half the camp falls in.

Sam takes rear guard, watches over his shoulder and above their heads. Offers steadying hands and smiles to the girls. Dean stares, shamelessly until they’re mostly lost between the trees, and even then—

“Let’s start Round One!” Nora produces big, laminated cards. “Ok, Justin. You’re first. What, is your partner’s favorite vehicle?”

Something about a Cadillac. Dean gloats.

“Good!” Nora says. “Dean?”

“It’d better be a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, black. I won’t make him recite the VIN.”

Ham butts in, “You and that car.”

“Hey, watch it, pal,” good-natured, mostly.

“Easy, guys.” Nora breaks in. “Rita, you’re up. What, is Simon’s favorite vehicle?”

Palms up, pleading to Heaven: “Oh my God the Audi RS 7; he never shuts up.”

And Ham guesses the Mercedes M-Class.

Everyone writes.

“Dean, you’re first this time.”

He sweats a little. Heart rate’s up.

Nora comes with, “Which room in your house would you most like to make over?”

Sam’s room. Shit, but he can’t say that. “Uh…” Dungeon needs a power wash, fresh coat of paint. Son of a bitch. “You know what?” Dean goes with, “Kitchen.” Not a joke their stove and fridge came outta World War II.

Rita, Ham, and Justin answer master bath, man cave, and bathroom again.

Nora asks, “Rita. What, does your partner’s sexiest sleepwear look like?”

Rita clicks fingernails. “Okay, there’s _my_ answer?” Click-click-click. “And there’s what Simon will probably think is my answer.”

Nora hooks an eyebrow, kinda shrugs.

“Basketball shorts.” Annoyed, “He’s a Lakers fan, so they’re purple and wretched but his ass is just like,” double-handful gesture, “nghr.”

Dean snickers, tongue in his teeth and Rita jabs him. He needs to think up an answer anyway. Ham says something about flowers.

Justin likes Kai in a ratty tank top, that, “I think she stole from her brother? She wore it to paint her apartment, so it’s all like, splattered and messy and way too big but…” Kid blushes plum. “I dunno, it just suits her.”

Dean nods at him. Digs that answer. His turn. “This one pair of warm-up pants.” Thin, shimmery nylon. “Gray and white.” Side snaps tug down the waistband. Show Sam’s hip crests, treasure trail, top of his crack. “And tear-away.” He mimes, throws a lewd wink.

“Mother of God.” Rita fans herself.

Answers filled in, sketchbooks down. Nora raises Jake on a walkie-talkie. “Ready for you.”

Chatter. Younger spouses climb the hill. Sam sweats, glows in the sun. Settles next to Dean and roots in; thighs press warm. Dean leans back, drapes his arm behind. Sam’s shoulder burns against his chest.

“All right,” Nora opens, “Kai. What, is your favorite vehicle?”

Sam chuckles.

“My granddad’s Cadillac.”

“Yes!”

Justin shows the match; they grin and hug.

“Sam?”

“I mean, you’ve all seen it.” Pink cheeks, Sam scratches his ear. “One ’67 black Impala.”

“Right!”

Sam half tackle-hugs him; Dean breathes. This, this is the shit Dean’s here for. Can’t even think of their last hug—not counting pre-death, post-death, or near-death.

Simon answers, “Audi RS 7,” like he’s trying out for the commercial.

And Peyton says, “My old Mustang. Damn I loved that car.”

“Ohhhhh noo!” Nora goes full gameshow host. “Ham said…”

He holds up, “M-Class?”

Peyton rolls her eyes. Fists, subtle in her lap. “That’s what I _have_ , Ham.”

“And I thought you liked it?”

“Wow,” Rita breathes.

Dean snickers, Sam nudges him.

“Sam,” Nora says, “you’re up. Which room in your house would Dean most like to make over?”

Dean can see the words, _my room_ form in Sam’s mouth. Eyes get big, flick Dean’s way.

_Dude, I know!_

“The… kitchen?” Sam hazards.

“Correct!”

More hugging!

Next question. Nora asks, “What, does your sexiest sleepwear look like? Simon.”

Turns all sorts of colors. “I-uh… Hang on…” Head whips up. “You said fucking basketball shorts, didn’t you?”

“That’s a match!” Nora confirms. “Peyton.”

“I love my green—”

Ham’s head drops.

“No match,” Nora says.

Ham shows his answer.

“Really?”

“Yeah!” Ham says. “You know, because of the…” Mimes boobs.

Peyton rubs her forehead.

Kai’s bouncing. “I know! I know! That gross tank top.”

Justin’s sketchbook reads: _That gross tank top._

“Sam?” Nora leans in, taps her chin. “What, did Dean say, is your sexiest sleepwear?”

“Nothing.” Blushes dark. “I’m gonna go with, nothing.”

“That’s a fair guess, Sammy.” Dean nods, shows _Gray track pants_.

Sam swallows. Adam’s apple pulses.

“Okay, teams. Our score is Kai and Justin three, Dean and Sam two, Simon and Rita three, and Ham and Peyton one. Time to switch!”

Dean follows Jake down toward the spring. Nora’s voice fades under water, leaves, and songbirds. Jake takes them through fish traps. “They’re illegal, except for bait fish, but if your choices are pay a fine or starve…”

Finally, Jake’s walkie crackles. “Come on back!” Nora calls.

“Ten-four.”

Dean parks next to Sam, worms close. Sam shows teeth, dimples too, but—

“Okay gang, now remember: Kai and Justin are tied for the lead with Simon and Rita at three. Dean and Sam have two, and Ham and Peyton one. Everybody ready?”

“Ready, Nora!” Simon puffs his chest out.

Dean fist bumps him.

“Ham, we start this round with you,” Nora says. “Where, is the strangest place you have made love?”

Shit. No wonder Sam’s tense.

“In the-uh… choir robe closet on our wedding day?” Ham says.

“Match!”

Better tackle this like, where’s the strangest place they’ve ever done it, with _anyone?_

“Justin.” Nora prompts.

“Your old playhouse at your parents’ place.”

Trouble is, Sam’s more or less a vault when it comes to sex stuff.

Kai claps a hand across her mouth. “I said the golf course; I forgot about the playhouse.”

“Damn, guys,” Ham teases.

Dean thinks: Where is the strangest place he ever banged, that Sam knows about?

“Dean, you’re up.”

Easy. “Front bucket of a wheel loader.” Him and a hunter named Jade, holding out for sunrise in a were-infested construction site.

“Right!” Nora says. Sam shows his notebook.

“What… the _fuck_ ,” Kai mutters.

Rita keels over in Simon’s lap.

Nora shakes her head. “Rita, we’re gonna need your answer.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t move. “A charter bus on a college trip.”

Simon drags his sketchbook out from under her.

“Another match! Nice work, y’all!” Nora goes to her next card. “Justin. What bill, do you complain about the most?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Student loans.”

Kai punches the air. Shows, _Student loans_.

“Yes!” Nora moves quick. “Dean?”

 _Ammo_ almost comes out before he snaps his teeth shut. “Gasoline.”

Sam nods and Nora confirms, “That’s a match!”

Arms around each other, automatic now, and wasn’t that fast? Dean burrows in Sam’s hair, fistful of shirt. He scratches light on Sam’s back. Kid’s still jumpy.

Rita says, “The groceries, ohmygod.”

And Simon cusses. “Power bill.”

“What?” she squeaks. “Sy, _you’re_ the one fixated on the power; meanwhile, your children eat like the Roman army!”

Ham matches Peyton on their cable bill. “Which is hilarious,” she says, “because _somebody_ has to have five premium sports packages.” Like a running joke, which, Ham finds visibly unfunny. No hug, even though…

“Y’all.” Nora scans the row, big grin. “We have a three-way tie.”

Sam’s muscles flex and breath goes shallow. Dean eyes him; Sam conscientiously fixes on Nora.

“Dean,” she says. “When and where, was your first kiss?”

He gets a little tunnel vision. Ring in his ears like, _waah, waah, waah_. Now Sam looks.

 _“We can do anything we want in California.”_ Bus stop, under a Wal-Mart sign—

Sam told them.

“September 10, 2002.” Dean’s voice holds.

_“Be… anything we want.”_

“Ulysses, Kansas.”

“Match!”

They hug. Stiff and awkward. Dean dredges up dumpster stench and buzzing, half-burned tube lights. Crickets screamed. _“Sam, no.”_ Broken bottle. Bus hissed to a stop. _“You’re the one can’t quit harpin about normal.”_ Wiped his mouth, back of his hand. _“This ain’t that.”_

All the worst of Purgatory, Hell and Earth he’s seen… _“Ball’s in your court, Dean.”_

Still is.

_“If you change your mind.”_

Dean pulls back, hooks Sam’s chin. Crease pops between his eyebrows. Dean grins, Butch and Sundance. Dimples flicker.

“Okay!” Nora’s beaming. “Kai and Justin, Sam and Dean, Simon and Rita, still tied. I am impressed!”

Sam covers Dean’s hand, curls long fingers under. Watches Nora.

“Let’s go to the tiebreaker. Dean—”

Thinks he could kiss that taut line out of Sam’s neck.

“—what meal is your favorite.”

Ha.

“—has to be an exact match.”

Dean’s got this. “Double bacon cheddar burger. Seasoned steak fries, cup of coleslaw which, I only order so he won’t bitch at me.”

Sammy’s notebook reads, _Double bacon cheddar burger. Seasoned steak fries, cup of coleslaw_. Brackets: _Which he only eats to appease me_.

“That’s a match.” Nora nods. Hugging. Dean runs his nose from Sam’s ear, down to where his shoulder curves. Sam’s big paw grips, back of his head. Dean squirms, breaks it up but leaves an arm around Sam. Pointedly watches the others.

Rita matches Simon’s linguine with vodka sauce, garlic bread, and Caesar salad.

Kai and Justin match Hawaiian pizza. Rita hisses something, maybe makes the Evil Eye, and Nora goes, “Wow. Y’all really suck at tiebreakers.” She throws her cards in the air. “Everyone wins!”

 

*

Moonlight shines stark-pale over the lodge. Sam jimmies the door. Lockpicks glint.

“Dude, what the fuck,” Dean hisses, checks behind them.

“It’s an old lock; cut me some slack!” Sam’s long fingers coax stubborn tumblers.

Dean swallows. Breathes, “That should make it easier.” Car’s headed their way; he’d much rather be inside when—

“Got it.” Lock clicks and Sam waves Dean through the kitchen door.

“We should raid the fridge while we’re here. I eat any more trail food I’ma turn into a squirrel.”

Sam snorts. “Crowley’d love it.”

Place smells its age. Dark and empty, windows shut tight. They set up in the dining room. Eerie laptop glow. Stag’s head above the fireplace casts twisted shadows. Glass eyes gleam.

Dean unwraps the book. Nasty vibe. Not like, Book of the Damned nasty but still. He cracks the cover. Greek’s not great, but he sounds out, “Calchas.” Kills a thought about what these pages are made of.

Sam click-clacks. “You try Google and I’ll see what’s in the Letters’ files?”

“Works for me.” Dean gets a hit. “Hey. This here’s a blog, so—”

“Grain of salt,” Sam says.

“But,” Dean scrolls. “Says here Calchas to Gélio was, a Ptolemaic—am I saying that right?”

Sam nods.

“Alchemist. You know the story, man. Lusts for power, goes insane. Rumors he was hangin around demons…”

More click-clacking and Sam nods. “Got it. ‘Calchas to Gélio, best known for his _Sképsi_ ,’ that’s, kind of a… journal of meditations.”

“Spell that?” Dean types what Sam dictates.

He goes on, “Looks here like the guy really was trying to summon a demon.”

“Trying?”

“That book holds his collected attempts over twenty years. He died penniless, insane, and, ‘raving about crosses.’”

“Crosses, like Jesus?”

“Nope,” Sam says. “Dead before Jesus.”

“Mistranslation, maybe.” Dean spitballs, “What if it was, y’know, cross _roads_?”

“Well,” Sam’s eyes track, side to side as he reads. “Whatever it was, it didn’t work. Book’s known to occultists as a curiosity, no real mojo.”

“Well, there’s gotta be somethin to it, Sammy, or it’da burned.”

“I agree.”

“Hey! Here’s something you won’t have.” Dean reads, “In 1971, Calchas to Gélio’s _Sképsi_ was sold at auction to an anonymous collector. It has not been seen on the market since.”

“I wonder why,” Sam says, wry.

“I wonder how it connects with our ghost.” Dean turns the pages. Looks like chicken scratches. “Is it a ghost? Ghost makes the most sense, but this, the sheriff…”

“Sounds demony, I know.” Sam shrugs. “Minimum? It’s evidence we found the murder site.”

“Yeah…”

“And it rules out fairies.”

Which, not like Dean’s scared of em; he’s just, not sure how it’s gonna go, next time those fuckers cross their path. “You wanna head back?”

“Sure.” Sam packs up.

Dean folds the creepy book—which, how many of these fuckin things are there, seriously—back into its cloth.

Sam locks up on their way out.

 

*

Night forest noises. Sam guards Dean’s six, edge of the treeline. Somebody’s awake. Flashlight jumps around in their neighbors’ tent. Kai and Justin, Dean’s almost sure. He points at Sam, himself, their rack.

Sam’s eyes: _What if we get caught?_

Dean tackles him, quiet and painless. Eyebrow wag at his shocked face and Dean flips them, pulls Sam on top. One more tumble and Dean kneels up, offers his hand. Half-assed dusts them off.

One last touch. He puts both hands in Sam’s hair and wrecks it, tangled scalp massage. Sam grins, bashful dimples and big paws land on Dean’s head. Nails skim, palms clutch. Tip him. Breath steams on his face. Dean balls fists, jerks Sam’s head back and runs his nose up Sam’s neck. Heart pounds and he gets… He gets hard, okay. Way Sam looks at him, Dean feels like a porterhouse in a butcher shop.

Flashlight in Kai and Justin’s tent blinks out. Dean steels up. _Time and a place_. He nods toward base camp. Sam’s eyes narrow and nose flares. Tongue gleams between thin lips.

Sam lets go.

They creep into the clearing. Justin mutters, agitated, and Kai makes comforting sounds. Chill wind blows. Dean ducks in their tent and Sam follows.

“Shhh,” Kai soothes. Dean can’t make out the rest.

Sam unpacks _Sképsi_ , crawls in his sleeping bag with his pen light, like a little kid. “I wanna study this text.” Sotto. “See if I can discern any patterns.”

“Poindexter,” Dean murmurs.

“Which would make you what, Ogre?”

“Nice one, Sammy!” Poke at his shoulder.

“Booger, Maybe.”

“Dude, shut up.” Dean shudders. “That guy gives me the fucking creeps.” Light leaks from Sam’s sleeping bag. “Don’t stay up too late, you hear me?”

“Yes, Dean.” Overly patient. “Good night, Dean.”

He curls toward Sam. Leaves stick in his hair from their gratuitous fake nookie. Tent’s seven feet long, give or take, but only four wide. Finally! Dean flops an arm across Sam’s middle and he tenses. Dean’s about to throw snark, but Sam exhales, eases into him.

“Night, Sam.” He nods off to turning pages, whispered syllables, Sam’s breath.

 

*

Come first light, orange tents blaze inside. Dean drags knuckles across his eyes, unzips his bedroll. Bite in the air, just in his boxers. Sam grunts, stirs while Dean shimmies jeans on.

“Mornin, Sleeping Beauty.” Dean lays back to zip up.

Sam rolls his shoulders, ankles, wrists. Grumbles and pops. Plants his feet and shoves his crotch up in the air, some kinda yoga thing; Dean’s seen Lisa do it.

He’s never seen Sam’s dick, eye level, morning wood in flimsy shorts.

Dean bails out the side door. No time for that shit now. Whole camp’s coming to life. He pulls his t-shirt on.

Wolf whistle.

“Rita…” Simon chuckles.

Dean blows a kiss, and she clutches invisible pearls.

Jake musters them for breakfast around the ashes of last night’s fire. More fuckin nuts and berries, so surprised. Justin’s jumpy. Kai looks drawn, sleep-deprived. Hamilton rocks spectacular bed-head while Peyton puts on makeup.

“All right, y’all,” Jake says. “We’re taking a beautiful walk today, so. Pack for two meals, and a round trip of about eight miles.”

And for the demon/ghost prowling these woods, but that’s strictly Dean’s problem.

 

*

Backcountry trail follows the creek upstream, shallow climb. Dragonflies zig-zag; cicadas call. Dean swats the eleventy billionth mosquito to get a piece of him. “Ha!” Blood smears his forearm. “Hope you enjoyed your last meal, sucker.” _Sucker, heh._ He bumps Sam.

Hair-flippy eyeroll for a comeback.

Sam soaks up Jake’s monologue. Hickory, oak, and redbud trees. Good fishing spots and forage plants. Dean doesn’t get it; Sam already knows this shit. But, they hit a rock ledge, sun sprays off a low waterfall and Sam gawks. Mottled eyes climb laddered strata, valley walls in brown and red and gray.

Dean reels like he’s punched.

Sam half turns, pulls a double-take. All Dean’s instincts say he better look away, engage poker face, crack a joke… Pulse jumps. He should close his mouth. Sam’s head tilts, eyes sparkle, and smile breaks, sunrise-slow on his face.

Trail curls around a sandstone bluff, and the ooh-ahh chorus even gets to Dean. End of the gorge, past a shallow pool, curtains of water tumble fifteen, twenty feet. Splash over ledges and twist white fingers to the rocks below. Curtains of mist carry downwind. Probably rainbows here, right time of day.

Jake drops his daypack. “Okay, y’all, let’s get settled. Nora owns you in,” watch check, “thirty-six minutes.”

Dean picks a seat, low on a layered rock formation worn round by the water. Canyon walls, cold spray, almost make him forget it’s summer. Sam slides up like, right beside him. Arm, not quite around but for sure behind.

“Okay. Even you’ve got to admit,” Sam scans the falls. Head tips, long line of his neck gleams. “This was worth walking for.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean bumps him. “You want some water?”

Head-shake, rueful smile. “I’ve got it covered.” Vague, expansive gesture.

“Shut up.”

 

*

Nora’s built a little shrink’s office, out in the trees. “Why choose relationship counseling?” White waterfall noise, soundproof. “Jake says you’re both clearly accomplished woodsmen. Why not come out, hike on your own?”

Mannn. This is the second time somebody’s asked them about their motives. Sam’s flashcards he made in the car touched none of this. Dean works the truth plan. “Me and Sammy,” quick glance, “Sam,” here goes. “We don’t, always, communicate the best.”

Sam jolts but locks it down quick.

“I get all, big brother on him.” Gulp. “M-metaphorically, you know.”

Nora nods. “What does that mean? ‘Get all big brother?’”

“I-uh…” Flush pricks his neck. “Sometimes I see him—”

“Tell _him_.”

Oh. “Uh… Okay, Sam. Sometimes, I can’t help it, I still see this little kid who’s my responsibility.”

Sam looks like Fred Sanford calling for Elizabeth.

“So I ride your ass. Which, I think, makes you think I don’t respect—”

“No!”

“Sam, please don’t interrupt,” Nora murmurs.

“Ah, it’s all right,” Dean says. “I’m done.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Nora turns. “Sam. Am I getting that coming to Camp Dixon was Dean’s idea?”

He nods.

“So, what made you agree?”

“I dunno.”

Dean wonders how much truth Sam’s fixing to drop here.

“I guess,” Sam goes on, “things have been really good with us. Lately. And. Maybe,” he shakes his head, “I dunno. This might help us… build on that.”

“You know, I really like those answers,” Nora says. “You both seem open, willing to work the process.” She leans back on her folding stool, hands on her knees. “How about you guys tell me your story?”

“Which…” Dean gestures between them.

“Both of you.”

“Like… how we met?” Sam asks.

“If you want to start there. You knew each other as children, right?”

“I was there when Sam came home from the hospital,” Dean offers. Quieter, “Our parents were close.”

“Right,” Nora says. “In the same business, I heard.”

Sam nods, wry mouth just for Dean.

“You know…” Dean gives Sam a once-over. “I guess we’ve been, on-again/off-again, kinda forever.”

Nora mm-hms.

“We always come back, though.” Sam’s face, open wide.

Dean thinks about that dive bar. Sammy’s, _“I’m your brother,”_ busted shoulder, _“here to take you home.”_

“So yeah.” Dean coughs. “This whole, truth-tellin thing’s kinda new.”

“What changed?” Nora leans in, forearms drape across her thighs.

Dean stammers.

“I don’t think it was any one thing,” Sam says. “More like, everything we’ve been through, added up.”

“Added up to what?” Nora prods.

“Uh…” Sam blinks.

Dean bumps him, throws a wink.

“All I know is, one day, we were in the car, like, a million other days before and since, and I thought, ‘I have everything I want.’”

Dean kinda grays out on that.

 

*

They’re pointed the wrong way.

Dean’s sure they hiked northeast out of base camp; sun was in his fuckin face the entire walk. Sun sets behind them now, and worse: thunderheads are piling up.

Single file, they wind and climb. Jake pulls up at a wide spot in the trail; the campers gather. “Guys, I’m really sorry. I seem to’ve turned us around out here. We’re almost to the lake.”

Back on the Wet and Wild grounds, Dean thinks, north of the beach.

“We won’t make it back to base camp before dark, and, especially with that storm blowing up, I think our best bet’s to hunker down.”

Subdued grumbling. Can’t be too shocked when survival camp includes a survival role-play. Coulda done without the rain though. Sky lets go a few fat drops. The grumbling escalates.

“Once you’re lost, your best bet is to stay put and wait for rescue,” Jake says. “So let’s see what we’ve got to make camp with.”

They take inventory. Almost everyone brought some kinda tarp, so there’s roofing material. Plenty of rope, from Dean, Kai, and Jake.

“Okay,” Jake directs. “Sam, Dean? Y’all stay here with me, huh? Help with the shelter?”

“You bet,” Dean says.

Nora leads the others off to collect firewood.

Rain picks up while they string the biggest tarps between thin branches. Sam holds, Dean ties, and their knuckles bump, but—Dean can’t help noticing—Sam gives him a mile of clearance. Half-foot of daylight divides their hips. This morning Sam was on him like flypaper.

More knots. Heavy plastic sheets, steep-pitched to shed rain, make a longhouse. Slim gap in the middle for a smoke hole, leafy branches tied on top.

Jake tests the lines. “Looks good, guys.”

Next job, clear out sticks and damp leaves. Dig a fire ring. Jake barks orders as foraging teams come back. Wood piles up in a corner, daypacks under the tarps. Sam strips wet bark off kindling twigs. Blade gleams in the low light.

“Probably our biggest challenge in this weather will be finding tinder,” Jake says.

Dean snorts.

Jake shoots him a look. “You have an idea?”

Dean shrugs. “Ladies,” turns to the girls. “Please forgive me but, one of you’s carrying tampons, right?”

“Uh…” Peyton kneels, unzips her pack. “Yeah. There’s almost always one crammed in…” Digs around, “Gotcha.”

“He’s not wrong,” Jake cops.

“Always camp with women.” Dean nods.

Sam lays a kindling cone, light touch of long fingers. Dean passes him fuel wood; biceps flex. Match flares the tampon tinder and Sam’s lips purse, cheeks puff…

There’s enough small tarps for a floor, and thanks to Rita—who, honestly, Dean would kiss on the mouth right now, in just the _minutest_ different circumstances—half a dozen space blankets and a feast of MRE’s.

“Told you I’d save your asses,” as she fucking pulls pasta out of her purse.

Dean loves this woman.

Sam nurses the fire, gets it crackling. Justin spins the point of his hunting knife in the dirt, slow-carves a cone. Kai spots Dean watching; worried. Ham jokes with his new best buddy Simon; meanwhile Peyton huddles under one of Rita’s blankets. Firelight shines in glassy eyes.

When they turn in, Sam lays down facing Dean, elbows and knees stake space between.

Whatever. Soon as the civilians fall asleep, they’re outta here. Dean balls up his flannel for a pillow, stares at the tarps.

At least the rain stops.

 


	4. The Beast

Sam drops his pack in what’s left of the Wet and Wild fire ring. Shotgun dangles from his hip, grazes the ground when he kneels. Flashlight in his mouth. Dean covers him, two barrels level, sweeps in a circle. Waves whisper off the lake, full moon hangs fat and high, lights up the ripples. Breeze shakes branches overhead.

Salt rounds, crowbars, holy water. Jars: graveyard dirt, some kind of bark, Dean’s good parsley (not that he’s pissy). Spare campground maps Sam swiped from the lodge.

Splashing fish and bullfrog calls. Mayflies just helpless against Sam’s light. More than a few bats flap between the trees, and Dean doesn’t even wanna think about snakes.

Sam’s all business, which… Dean can’t fault him for focus. Sam stirs and mutters, strikes a match. Blue flame peaks, flares to the map’s corners and burns in, curls the edges. Vile-smelling smoke.

Dean tries not to gag. “What’ve we got?”

Sam studies the charred scrap. “I’d say, fifty paces… west-southwest.” He points. “Give or take.”

“Dude, give or take? Where’d you even get this spell?”

“Kevin’s notes. He-uh, wrote a ton about devil’s gates, working on Trials stuff.”

Huh.

“I don’t think there’s a better source than God; do you, Dean?”

Given the guy’s track record, Dean ain’t takin that bet. Still, they got no better ideas. He hoists his bag. “Let’s do this.”

Sam navigates to a likely looking spot. Break in the ground, bones of an old sinkhole. Grass and shrubs poke sidelong out of the rock face. He hands Dean a sketch. “This sigil, preferably carved in oaks, cardinal directions, start west.”

“How far?” Dean tears off a corner so he’ll remember which way is up.

“No more than, twenty paces?”

“You’re really inspiring a lot of confidence, Sammy, you know that.” He plows off into the woods, eyeballs his distance from Sam’s flashlight.

Two down, two to go, and his foot slips, clearing a rotten log. Dean saves it, mostly. Manages not to break any bones, though he busts his lip on a thick, low branch. Sees stars, a little bit.

Fists clenched and cussing in his head, he stumbles to the next good-looking tree, unsheathes his knife. Something…

Nothing, actually.

All the noise the forest oughta make’s gone missing. Cold finger winds up his neck, and it might be the blood in his mouth, or the third-time-charm, but, “Sammy!”

Out of sight, behind the drop, no answer.

Sam’s light blinks out.

Dean breaks hot between the trees, straight for Sam’s last known. Limbs scratch, grab at his clothes, and he’s gotta watch out for that dropoff. “Sam!”

He’s on the ground, fetal. Dean scrambles down the cliff. Sam moans.

Dean scoops him up. “Come on, King Kong.”

Sam shakes. Dean knows this face. Wide eyes roll like a horse’s; Dean can almost see the Pit fire. Sam breathes heavy. Grunts and whimpers.

“Hey.” Dean puts his tripping brother on his knees. “Sammy? Sam!” Cups his face. “Look at me. Look at me.”

Fast blinks. “Dean?”

“I know what this is, okay? I can fix this.” He’s gotta turn Sam loose. Kid slumps forward, right in Dean’s crotch. “I gotta tell ya, bro, when I pictured this, it was under a whole other set of circumstances.” Fingers through Sam’s hair, holy flask from his jacket. Dean twists off the cap with his teeth. “I’m sorry about this.” He holds Sam’s head between his legs, drenches him.

Steam plumes and spits. Sam screams.

“Easy,” Dean tries to shush him. “I got you, little brother, you hear me?”

Sam groans.

Dean hits him again. Sam writhes, pries at his hands. Boots scrabble trenches. Dean fights back. Steam fades.

Sam trembles. “D-Dean?” Vise-grip on his forearms.

“You with me?”

Smushed, “What the fuck happened?”

Dean hauls him up. “ _Yarqa_.” Woods sound back to normal. “Hell’s cockroach. Look like, tiny little graboids, you ask me, but—”

“ _Yarqa_.” Sam rubs behind his neck. “Like, maggot?”

Dean shrugs. “That’s-uh,” son of a bitch, “what Alastair called them.”

Voice-that-wasn’t-a-voice: _“Our little friends here…”_ whispering, ear-that-wasn’t-his-ear, _“magnify our torment.”_

“We gotta get everybody to the lodge.” Dean breaks the moment. “I think Justin’s infected, and we’re what, five hundred yards from camp? If it got us…”

“We oughta finish this first.” Sam’s soaked. Head and shoulders, down his chest. Nipples stick out like erasers.

“Yeah.” Like Dean’s a lot better, wet to the thighs and muddy to the knees. “Come with me. Help finish the wards. Then we’ll do the binding.”

“Dean?”

“Yo.” Fuck, he thinks he dropped his knife out here.

“Thank you.”

“S’my job.” Dean waves him off.

 

*

“I don’t care what you say,” Dean snips. “Tell em, you got word there’s a bear on the loose. Tell em help came early. Something’s going on out here, and we need to go!”

Nora’s crossed arms and averted eyes say they’re getting traction there, at least.

Jake wants to argue. “What could possibly be going on?”

Sam swoops in. “Jake, I can promise you, we will explain everything, once everyone’s safe.”

Jake’s palms go up.

Here comes the Sammy-whammy. “Please?” And…

“Fine.”

Everyone’s awake when they get back to camp anyway. Justin, apparently, sat bolt upright, calmly said, “I’ll kill you before you take me,” and cold-cocked Ham.

They’re in corners now, with women tending. Peyton holds a chemical pack over Ham’s eye. Simon hands him the vape. Kai and Rita see to Justin, gray and sweaty.

“Look. I just… I need to get out of these woods.” Eyes dart. Lank hair droops around his face. Gives him the full street-preacher effect.

“Okay,” Jake says and everyone perks up. “Let’s break down what we can, douse the fire.”

Justin’s sigh growls out of him.

“Hilltop’s under a mile; we can do this.” Nora’s upbeat smile stops right at the edge of her mouth.

“One last thing?” Dean adds, “And this is gonna sound a little nuts, but… If you feel, like, a shiver up your spine? Like a goose ran over your grave? Sing out.”

“Sing, out?” Peyton asks.

“Cuss,” Dean says. “Holler, bust out your favorite showtune, whatever.”

“Dude.” Simon questions, eminently reasonable.

“It’s a superstition, okay? All this shit going on… Just, humor me.”

Head-shakes and mutters, but people got more pressing shit to deal with.

 

*

Jake walks point with Sam at his flank. Simon and Nora follow. Kai and Rita mostly drag a muttering Justin over hard-packed dirt, brambles and roots. Crickets and cicadas squawk. Ham keeps a hand on Peyton. Peyton clutches back, two fists tight in his shirt sleeve. Dean brings up their six.

Salt guns probably ain’t gonna do shit. Dean unsnaps his holster anyway, goes single action, safety off. Won’t spook the civilians until he has to. Crossing the woods like a herd of elephants. Flashlights probably visible from space. Campers whisper amongst themselves, crush leaves and trample bushes.

Moonlight slices silver through the canopy. Hoot owl and a whippoorwill. Bullfrogs, closer they drift to the lake. Something startles, shakes the bushes on the column’s left. Justin bellows, guttural, and bolts off into the woods.

“Justin?” Kai stares after him. “I…” Eyes dart around. “What do we—”

“I’ll look for him,” Jake says, and—

“I’ll come with you.” Kai steps up.

Sam volunteers, but Dean nixes that shit.

“You need to take this crew to the lodge, get em salted in.”

“Salted in?” Rita folds her arms. “What am I, a baccalá?”

Sam shares a grin with him. “All right.” Nods. “Nora? You can get us the rest of the way, yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” Nora points. “Cart path’s right over there.”

“Perfect,” Dean says. “Go. And remember—”

“If I feel a chill, make a noise.”

“Attaboy.” Dean grabs Sam’s shoulder, squeezes. Maybe pets. “All right.” He turns to Jake and Kai. “We’re gonna wanna go dark.” Cuts off his flashlight.

“I don’t wanna scare him,” Kai says.

“I know, but if he sees us coming…”

Kai nods.

They split up. Dean picks through heavy brush at the trail’s edge. Gets dark quick. Bats chitter above and raccoons, maybe opossums rustle the litter. Justin’s light darts. Twenty, thirty paces ahead. Dean creeps.

Once this thing’s over, him and Sam are gonna have a heart-to-heart. He shoulda known, even this much… much… subterfuge was gonna backfire.

Muttering, off through the trees. Dean’s… eleven? Sounds distorted. Dean creeps close, quiet. Pretty sure Justin’ll bolt if he can’t get the drop.

Guy looks full caveman. Hunched on his heels, cutting trenches in the dirt. All that hair, loose from his bun. Douche, but he still needs saving.

“Justin?” Kai’s voice, quiet. “Babe, it’s me; can I—”

“Kai?” Eyes up, baseball big. “You came back!” And then, “Are you really Kai?” Justin rises, slow. “Are you trying to trick me?” Turns in a circle. Knife blade gleams, dappled moonlight.

“Justin, listen to me. You’re sick; I can help you.”

Soon as he turns his back, Dean strikes. Hooks his arm, bends, not far back. Just makes him drop the sharp, kicks it into the brush. Jake bursts in, pythons Justin around his middle. Both take him to his knees.

“Justin?” Kai drops down in front of him. Grabs his face. “Babe, look at me, you’re gonna be okay.”

“Uh. Kai?” Dean says. Digs backup holy water out of his bag. “I’m gonna need you to hold his head still. Jake, you hold the rest of him.”

Jake asks, “What the hell are you doing?”

Dean pours. Justin screams, and steam clouds through the clearing. Kai holds on like a boss and Jake falls back, flat on his ass in the fresh mud.

 

*

Light from the lodge is one of the most glorious things Dean’s ever seen. “I need to swing by my car.” He’s got a hunch. Pops the trunk and stuffs a bag, one eye back toward the forest.

Jake waits by the main doors. “Well,” locks up behind them, “you said you’d explain.” Arms crossed. “Talk.”

Couples press against each other, perched around the fireplace. Peyton rocks in Ham’s arms. Simon holds Rita’s hand, dark fingers laced with her pale ones. Kai settles Justin at a picnic table. Nora brings towels from the kitchen.

Dean hands Jake a pair of Hellhound glasses. “Hey, everyone? Do me a quick favor wouldya and show us the back of your neck?”

Kai, and (obviously) Justin, clean. Simon, Rita, Nora. Dean takes a peek to make sure Jake’s clean. Ham checks out, but—

“Peyton? Can you pull your up hair a little higher?”

Hand shakes. How’d Dean not notice before? Ghost pale.

“Uh, Sam?” Dean tilts his head.

“Gotcha.” Sam circles, cuts off Peyton’s retreat.

“I’m gonna move your hair now,” Dean says.

One, long, thin, worm. Sick-pale and yellowish. Out of focus, wriggling down her neck from the base of her skull.

Ham bulls up, “What the hell are you doing to my—”

And Jake says, “What the hell is that?”

“What the hell is what?” Peyton grabs at her neck. “What the fuck, you guys?”

Dean hands Ham the Hellhound glasses. “I can fix it.”

Ham’s face loses a coupla shades. “Peyton… honey…”

Dean shoves a flask at him. “Grab onto her and pour.”

“What is it?” Justifiably untrusting.

“Holy water.”

Ham balks.

“It’ll be real ugly for about, ten seconds. Then she’ll be fine.” Dean guides his hand. “Trust me, man; I had to do Sam just like this.”

Sam nods reassurance.

Ham pours. Peyton shrieks and thrashes, slings water everywhere, but Ham holds on. Steam spirals. Dean flinches. No joy watching that ghost worm boil and spit. Peyton cries in Ham’s shoulder, wet and terrified. Sam gives her his overshirt. Rita brings more towels.

Dean turns, faces a line of slack-jawed civvies. “I’m guessing you guys have questions.” Finger guns. “But, let’s give those two a minute, huh?” Scared people are so suggestible. He herds everyone across the room, around the table. “Sam, you-uh…” he nods at the kitchen. “We’ll be right back.”

“Okay, dude, for real,” Sam says, once they’re alone. “What are those things?”

“Surprised you don’t know, Sammy.” Dean drops his bags on the island, starts laying out weapons. “I thought they lived all over Hell.” Shotguns, hundred-count salt rounds. “They’re-uh… worms, you know?” All their holy flasks. “Go in the back of your neck, like a wraith’s spike.” Shoulda let him have a look.

Sam’s broad chest rises and falls. He grabs a gun, starts loading.

“Pump you full of psychedelics, make you, freak out.” Kid could probably use a belt of Helper right now; Lord knows Dean could. “You okay?”

No laugh in that chuckle. Sam’s wrist flicks; sawed-off closes with a crack.

“So these _yarqas_ —”

“ _Yarqat_.”

“Come again?”

“ _Yarqat_ ,” Sam explains. “Is the plural. With a _t_.”

“You’re fucking with m—” Overhead lights blink. “Son of a bitch.”

Wind picks up, rattles the shutters. Faint shriek, unnatural. Dean gets his glasses back on, leads Sam to the back door. Outside, trees part like the Red Sea. Limbs bend, coming closer. Lightning spikes across clear skies.

“Dean?” Guess Sam’s seeing what Dean’s seeing.

Leaves, limbs and brush blast through the tree line. Parking lot lights fail.

“Was just fixin to tell you, Sammy.” Shriek kicks up loud. “There’s a momma.” Long-haired, naked and whip-thin. “ _Malika_.” Pale skin. Everything, even her eyes, yellowish-gray, same maggoty color as the _yarqat_. Dozens, maybe hundreds of em, race ahead of her.

“We should-ahh…” Sam hooks his thumb toward the dining room.

“Copy that,” Dean says.

Jake waits outside the batwing doors. Sam starts in about, how he knows everyone’s scared right now, and all this must seem awfully—

“Jake.” They ain’t got time for this. “You’ve got a devil’s gate in those woods.”

Jake rubs his head. “Ohhh, my God, you sound like the locals.”

“Shut up,” Dean says. Sam elbows him, but fuck, that. “Me and Sam, we sealed it up. But we’re gonna need to talk about long-term maintenance.”

“Nora, can you fifty-one fifty these assholes?”

“Jake,” Nora stink-eyes him.

“Now. The thing about devil’s gates is, sometimes shit gets through.” Dean makes eye contact, one by one. He can see the wheels turn. What they’ve witnessed, what they’re ready to believe. “Demons get through.”

“Demon,” Ham says. “That… tapeworm?”

Fair point. “Uh, demonic entity, in this case. Anyway. These,” he taps his glasses, “let us see the suckers. Now we know everyone’s clean, we’re gonna—”

Pale emergency bulbs pop on as the fluorescents cut off. First few Hellworms reach the back doors. Wind dies. A/C shuts down. Palpable quiet.

Sam says, “How about we all head into the kitchen, huh?” Smart. Less windows, more defensible. “We can protect you.”

Momma-beast stalks closer. Sternum, collarbones, and ribs show. Gaunt cheeks, hollow eyes. _Yarqat_ stream from the woods, pulsing and scuttling at her feet.

Sam and Dean shepherd campers toward the kitchen. Shuffling over the floorboards, eyes dart and necks twist. Shallow breathing. Someone whimpers. Dean brings up the rear, shotgun ready. _Yarqat_ crowd and pile against the doors. Half a dozen or so climb, writhe up the glass. Dean shudders.

“Holy shit, what is all this?” Ham’s found the arsenal, sounds like.

“Weapons,” Sam says. “Salt rounds, and those flasks, we’ll fill with holy water.”

“Where will we get holy water?” Simon asks.

Dean backs into the kitchen, sawed-off trained on demon-bitch. All Camp Dixon’s human occupants crowd around the island. Peyton melts down, sobbing in Ham’s arms. Jake and Nora share a look. Volumes, family history maybe—Dean knows.

Sam runs a salt line behind him. “We’ll make our own holy water.” Turns the tap on.

“I want to help.” Jake holds his sister. “This is my home. I have to—”

“ _We_ have to.” Ham says. “That thing fucked with you, Peyton—”

“And me!” Justin rubs his neck. “I want a piece!”

Dean catches Kai’s grin, stifled. “Okay.” He nods. “Let’s make a plan.”

“Those glasses,” Rita says. “Can you make those too?” Elbow deep in a purple purse, “Because…” she fishes up black and red cat’s eyes on a silver chain.

“Rita,” Sam frowns. “I’m not taking your—”

“Reading glasses, I got em at Rite Aid!” She thrusts them at him. “No backtalk!”

Sam shows his palms and accepts. “Thank you.”

“Hey,” Dean says, “I like em, Sammy; they’re you.”

“Dude…”

“Uh-uh.” Kai snatches, loops the chain behind her head. “This pair’s me. And I’ll have one of those shotguns, if you’re sharing.”

Dean grins. “You can shoot?”

“I’m from Missouri.” Well duh.

Dean’s barrel tracks the _malika_ as she circles the lodge. Mass of Hellworms stacks up higher. “Hey Sammy, you got a pen?”

“Uh, yeah.” Faucet cuts off. Sam brushes up against him. Lifts his gun. “Breast pocket.”

Dean beats the urge to feel Sam up, though he lets his fingers drag. “This sigil,” he draws, circles and lines, “traps her.”

“Then what?” Sam asks.

“I dunno, box her up, mail her to Crowley?”

Bitchface. “Or we could try Ruby’s knife.”

“We could try Ruby’s knife.” Dean shrugs.

 


	5. The Breach

They stage their procession down the hall. Dean takes a sawed-off, slips out through the kitchen door, armed and wearing glasses. Cool, muggy air. Clear sky. Grateful for that fat moon again. He stops at the lodge back corner. Kai’s head pops out behind him. Dean nods, breaks for the parking lot. Next pause, edge of the big front porch.

Dean peers out; all quiet. Over his shoulder Kai waves go. Dean hustles, hunkered, stops by the steps. Checks with Kai. Teeth clench and he puts his head down. Zero cover, past this.

Boots crunch gravel as he bolts for Baby’s rear. Keys out, he stays down until Kai’s next to him, nods at him. Dean pops the trunk and they ease up. Worms are almost through the door on the other side. First, three layers, maybe, might fry on the salt, but…

Dean pulls out the holy oil. Points. “Burn, dip.”

Kai nods.

He grabs a cheap plastic rosary and Dad’s journal. Takes point while they sneak back towards the lodge. Dean knocks. Ham darts out and takes his flank. Gun in hand, spare in a holster, pocketful of shells.

Kai, Jake, and Justin duck out behind them, round the corner and out of sight.

Dean stalks for the tree line. Ham shadows. Crash doors seethe with blurry, milky slugs. Glass cracks. Dean lines up his shot.

Bam-bam! Unloads both barrels into the _yarqat_ pile. Gross bastards burst in slimy showers.

Momma shrieks.

Ham passes a fresh gun over his shoulder and Dean swaps. Fires again and hears a crack as Ham reloads. The _malika_ stops. Smiles. Vicious and wide, crawling with worms. One creeps out between her teeth; tiny jaws snap the air around her chin. Shoulders hunched, she glares.

“I could use a sit rep, Hamilton!”

Ham falls back and Dean sticks with him. “Looks like Justin’s painting the sigil, and-uh—”

“Hang on!” _Malika_ breaks for them, mouth wide, screeching and shedding _yarqat_. Dean fires, drives her back.

Ham takes his empty. “Sam and Sy look like they’ve got the ladder covered. Rita’s halfway up.”

Dean sneaks a glance at the water tower. Fuckin rain-fed, for the sprinkler system. Moon silhouettes Rita’s ascent. Beads dangle off her wrist. Down the hill, Kai and Jake stick close to Justin.

Demon-bitch feints. Spits up Hellworms, creeps closer. Salt scattered on the ground takes care of some of em. Fuckin slug invasion, Dean shudders, fires. The _malika_ falls back. Mouth opens, shrieks, and—aww, gah—her jaw splits, vertical. White wriggling mass down to where her voice box should be. Gurgling wail and a surge of worms splats on the gravel.

Dean gags. “Baby, you just got reeaal ugly.” Left-handed, he slings holy water in an arc. _Malika_ screams as steam swirls up, _yarqat_ sizzle. Too many. Dean shoots at the thick of em, swaps Ham for a fresh load, levels on the _malika_.

“I can’t hold em off, Ham!” Easing backward.

“Shit.” Salt shell clatters to the ground, rolls off. “What do we do?”

“Stay calm, man. Come on.” He can’t feel em. Fuck, but he can see the little bastards, squirming up over his boots. Shaky, “You like Metallica?”

“Metallica.”

“How bout, ‘Enter Sandman?’ You know, duhh duh-dah-dah-duhh, duhh duh-dah-dah-duhh… come on!”

Ham joins in, gets Dean’s gun reloaded without dropping anything else.

Dean sings, “Sleep with one eye open—” shoots, “—gripping your pillow tight. Exxxiiit light!” Click. “Ennnterrr niiight!” BOOM! “Taaake my hand…” Click. He tries to keep his mind off the two dozen or so _yarqat_ slithering slimy toward him and Ham’s juicy brains.

They’ll only have one shot with their nuclear option. Dean lets the worms pile on.

“—and never mind that noise you heard—Ham, I don’t hear singing!”

“I don’t know this part!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Dean loops back to the chorus and eases the twist cap off his canteen. “You ready?”

“Ready for what?” Ham asks.

And fuck Dean hopes Simon isn’t giving Sam this shit. “The water, man.” He gestures.

Ham goes, “Oh, right.”

Shivers. Heart rate spikes and his vision shakes. Dean puts two rounds in the demon bitch. “Reload.”

Ham does.

“You ready now?” Goosebumps rip down his back.

“Ready.”

“Go!” Dean spins his canteen strap, upends the thing and steam pours off as holy water soaks him, head and shoulders. Screeching, hissing, bubbling. Dying Hellworms splatter at his feet. Momma closes. Bony fingers squeeze his throat, burn through lingering water and she draws him to her, _yarqa_ like a tongue slides through her lips. Dean bends his wrist to almost breaking, barrel underneath her chin…

BOOM! White matter spray where her head was. Legs give way and the not-corpse crumples. Dean pulls Ruby’s knife—hot damn if he ends this bullshit here, but—worms swoop in, bury her. Dean kabobs them one by one by one, but there’s always more; this is fucking worthless.

Walkie-talkie clipped to Ham’s belt barks, “Trap set,” Jake’s voice.

Good thing, too, because, Plan A it is.

“Copy,” Ham says, sotto.

Wriggling mass makes sucking, wet sounds. Slinks for the woods. Dean blows off fistfuls of _yarqat_ but can’t make it stop. Kai and Jake escort Justin up the hill, grab Rita, and stash them in the lodge.

Three assault teams regroup.

“You give em the walkie?” Dean asks.

Jake nods. “Now what?”

Dean shrugs. “I blew her head off; she escaped. Guessin she’s… healing out there or somethin.”

“So, we split up?” Sam asks.

“Yeah.” Dean doesn’t like it. “Get a bead, corral it that way. Kai, you’re gonna want—”

“I know how to flush game, Dean.” Purple hair and nose ring glint in the moonlight.

“Course you do.”

“Three brothers.”

Dean tugs her into a half hug.

 

*

They fan out. Kai and Jake trot down the cart path. Sam takes pursuit. He’s the better tracker, which, chaps Dean’s ass every time he has to cop to it. Simon shadows; Dean and Ham swing wide, Sam’s eight. Signaling distance.

Sam stalks through clammy air and chirping katydids. Moon barely penetrates high summer canopy. Dean’s nose sweats, glasses slip.

Sam stops. Flash of a red penlight. Dean nudges Ham and they creep ahead. Flanking maneuvers. In position, signals flicker back and forth. Dean nudges Ham, shared nods.

Forest erupts as Sam fires. Wind blasts. Trunks bend and limbs part. Dirt, sticks, and leaves catch air. Dean shields his eyes. Two shots, bam-bam, half blind. Ham reloads him.

“Dean!” Sam yells.

And, “Son of a bitch.” _Yarqat_ surge from the central mound, worms blowing out a rotten melon. Dean shudders. “Ham, I’m gonna need you to take the guns—”

“Whoa, take the—”

“fall back, get to the trap.”

“Why?” Ham pales. “What’s happening?”

Dean takes Ham’s holy water canteen. “This all you got?”

Ham blinks. “I-uh. Shirt pocket.” Spare flask, beats nothing.

“You know what?” Dean hands over his glasses. “Take these too.” Probably do him more harm than good. “You grab Sam and Simon, radio Jake, and break for it, you understand?”

Ham’s shoulders stiffen. “Got it.”

“Go!” Dean slaps his back. Deep breath and he plunges toward the line, humming Kirk Hammett riffs. Makes with the Pied Piper act; goosebumps like—well, like a zillion fucking Hellworms are crawling all over him.

No sign of the others when he hits the cart path. Dean takes a breath and keeps on singing but he’s pretty sure he’s got. Wind in the trees like soul screams, heart rate through the roof. He dumps his smallest flask on himself, won’t run, but… brisk walk, that’ll be okay.

 _“Go deeper…”_ Demon on the rack, shrieking. _“Good, Dean.”_   And he’d beamed at the praise.

He dumps a canteen, left-face. Gonna have to cut through the woods. Shivering, soaked to the bone, Dean walks.

Flames.

He rubs his arms.

Chains.

Blows in his hands.

Screams.

 _“You can make it stop.”_ Alastair cradled him, brushed away his tears. _“You can make it allll stop.”_

Outfield lights, salvation itself. Last canteen…

Blind from the steam. Dean bolts. Full-bore run for the sigil, ditch as many sons of bitches as he can.

“Dean!”

He pulls up. Scans…

Sam. Crawling. Abso-fucking-lutely heroic, dragging Ham and Simon, tripping _balls_ , looks like. Fuck, and if Dean’s having Hell flashbacks, Sam must be—

“Sammy!” Dean breaks for him.

Watcher, out the kitchen window. Dean signals but he can’t glance back.

Kai breaks the tree line, no sign of Jake. “Go-go-go!” In the radio. “I got an entourage here!”

He digs this girl.

Dean hears it first: _chik-chik-chik-chik_ , then the cold hits, out of place in the rising steam. Sam roars under the sprinklers.

Dean runs for him. “Sammy?” Grabs him up, fists his lapels. “Hey, you with me, man?”

Sam blinks. Head shakes. Wet hair sprays. “Are we…” Hand out, he collects holy rainwater.

“Where’s your glasses? I gave mine to Ham…”

Whooping, up from the grass and down from the water tower. Nora and Peyton cheer. Rita swings her rosary around like it’s Mardi Gras.

Sam laughs, wide-open mouth. Eyes close and he turns his face up, sprinkler-soaked. Dean drags a thumb across his cheek and tows him in, wet second first kiss. Automatic.

Dean freezes. Sam squints, lets out this rumble and mauls him. Teeth smack, hands scrabble and tongues fence. Dean’s hearing the Hallelujah Chorus when—

Ham coughs. Loud.

Sam lets him up for air. Everyone snickers, blushes, averts their eyes. Well…

Wolf whistle.

Simon chuckles. “Rita…”

Dean goes for the walkie: “What, are you girls doing up there?”

“Are you kidding me?” she answers. “Best seat in the house!”

 

*

Sam leans on him, whole walk back to their cabin. Drenched to the bone, oughta hit the showers, but Dean’s boots drag, shoulders ache. Soaked clothes stick to him. Breezes break him out in bumps.

He puts Sam in a chair. Shuts, locks, and salts the door. Kneels on the rag rug.

“Dean, you don’t have to—”

“Shut up.” Pulls Sam’s boots off. Slow. Picks wet knots apart. “I wouldn’ta brought us here, Sammy, if I’da known.” Soggy socks splat in a corner.

Sam rolls his shoulders, stretches that long neck. “I thought it was a ghost too.”

Dean lifts Sam’s shirt. Werewolf wound looks pissed off, red and puckered. “Let’s get this off you.” Sam leans up, lets Dean peel it over his head.

Sam grabs his belt loops. Dean sucks breath. Eyes up, brimming. “Dean, those… creatures.”

“Pretty shitty, huh?” Every time he thinks he’s seen the last of Hellfire in Sam’s eyes. “You gonna be okay?”

Sam nods. “I’ve seen worse.” Wry grin twists into something real. “You saved us. Nobody else woulda known that sigil; I’d never—”

“Sam.” He doesn’t wanna think about sewing lips shut, slashing throats so they can’t scream.

Sam strokes his sides, warm palms over damp skin. “Why did you bring us here?”

Fuck, why did he?

_“You don’t, ever want something more?”_

That’s why.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” When he’d thought they’d get to sleep together, get in enforced PDA, talk about sex a lot more, that’s for sure. Maybe—

“Kiss me again.” Sam thumbs circles on his hipbones.

 _“Somebody who understands the life?”_ This life, their life? That ain’t just some hunter.

Dean slides a palm along his jaw. “Sam, are you su—”

“Dean.” Sam two-fists his collar, pulls him down. “It’s you, okay? It was always you.”

Soft press, firm grip. Then Sam’s smell hits, sharp from two days on the trail and Dean groans. Sam—Dean pulls a rocky breath—tastes the same.

_“We can do anything we want in California.”_

Same as that hot night Dean full-on _Temple of Doomed_ himself, put Sam on that bus.

_“Be… anything we want.”_

Sam’s tongue slides between his lips. Dean laps back, curls a hand behind Sam’s neck and seals them, mouth-to-mouth. Tastes, swallows up Sam’s soft moans, feeds on them. Sam tickles under his tongue, nips at his lips and fights him. Dean pulls hair. Sam gasps.

“Like that do ya.” Dean pulls harder.

Sam bites harder.

Dean rips off his shirt and Sam takes that for a green light. Strips Dean to his knees faster than he can say, “Holy shit, Sam.” Palms climb his thighs, tug at the hairs. Dean jerks Sam’s head back. Sam shows tongue and Dean dark-chuckles. Dimples under moon eyes.

Sam stares, holds Dean’s eyes and takes his hand. Guides him, glides him down, between his pecs and past his abs. Zipper like a freight train down its tracks. Hard. Huge. Soaked shorts scald Dean’s fingers.

“This for me?” Dean swings at smooth; voice slips.

Sam nods. Sweats between his collarbones, breathes fast.

“Get those pants off and get in that bed.” Dean’s lungs burn.

“Bossy.” Breathy.

“You love it.”

Sam sways, slips his jeans off. Dean looks a fool, hopping on one foot, trying to ditch boot, sock, and pantleg all at once. Sam laughs at him. Dean takes it. Joy at his expense is fuckin joy, and Sammy’s earned it.

Dean shoves him at a double-twin and Sam flops back. Sweat shines down his chest. Dick bobs and his hips roll. Dean’s stomach swoops. Vertigo, teetering, “Sammy, if you don’t like—”

“I like it.” He scoots up. Dean follows, on his knees. “Soulless.” Flicker of blush. “But, you know, if you—”

“I like it,” Dean croaks.

“Crowley?” Know-it-all.

“Fuck you.” And anyway, “Benny.”

“Oh, that, fuckin, dick, I knew it!”

“Hey, you hit a dog.”

Sam swallows.

“No…” Dean tips Sam’s chin towards him. “No, I apologize. I’m gonna put a moratorium on all that shit. We both…” Head shakes. “Clean slate, okay? And you hold me to it.”

Sam stares.

“Well?”

Sam strikes like a jungle cat. Hot breath, growls and teeth. Dean had his suspicions. Piper, for one, didn’t bruise between her thighs from slinging hash.

Wrists pinned. “Hey, now,” against Sam’s mouth.

Sam grinds, sweat slick in Dean’s hip crease. Dean bumps along his abs, snags in his belly button. Groans. “You love it,” Sam breathes.

And, okay, but, there is a time and a place. Handful of hair, nape of Sam’s neck. Sam’s dick jumps and leaks between them. Dean slips Sam’s pin, flips him, minds his side. Holds him down and sucks Sam’s lips, licks behind his teeth. Sam bites, tugs, and snarls.

“You wanna pitch, I guess?” Dean never asked nobody else. Ain’t nobody else Sam.

Cheeks puff “I-uh…” Cool air hits his face. “I do, but…” Nose flares. Sam’s legs spread, cradle Dean between. “You first.”

If he were a better man, he might argue. But his gut clenches and hips kick, thinking about pushing himself in, getting buried. “Don’t move.” Dean climbs off Sam’s Frankenbed. Scares up the supplies he bought in a fit of optimism, weeks ago.

“Came prepared, didya?” Sam hooks Dean’s direction. One knee bent, tantalizing peek.

“It’s survival camp, Sammy.”

Snort-laugh. Sam stretches back. Long, lean body, sweat and goosebumps. Muscles and tendons bulge. Spine curls.

Dean’s breath catches. He’s seen Sam sprawled like this. Naked, even. Never had anything in his hands at those times besides med kits. Collarbone peaks, ab valleys. Dark little patch of hair, right below his navel.

Inhale, rush of oxygen rocks him.

Bedsprings screech as Dean spreads, slips between Sam’s legs. Sam jumps when he’s touched. Dean gropes hamstrings. “Get your knees up; I wanna see.” Sam squirms, grunts and doubles. Always was limber as spaghetti and his dick dangles, drips on his belly. Balls spread flat and wide. Sam opens, dark crease, on display, but, “Sammy, that can’t—” Pillows, snatched from behind Sam’s head.

“Hey!”

Stuffed under his ass. Dean guides Sam’s feet down. Fingers skim fresh-healed skin. “You really—”

“Dean, stop.” Sam cups his jaws, fuckin meathooks. “I am totally healed.”

He shakes loose, nips one of Sam’s thumbs when he pulls free. Pets down, circles wide of Sam’s cock and scratches, inside his thigh. Sam bucks.

“You wanna…” Roll-over gesture.

Sam’s head shakes.

He rubs cool, slick gel between his thumb and fingers. Sam stares through half-mast lids, shuddery lashes. Dean breathes.

Sam lifts, folds. Long fingers curl around his shins. “Dean, please.”

Floodwater-pulse. Dean pets. Sam groans. Tickle, circle, press. Two knuckles, just like that. Sam’s insides flex. Dean sinks. Twists. Fingerfucks him, out and in. Sam’s hole clutches, drags. Sam rocks.

Dean slides in a second. “Does it hurt?”

Two days in the sun but he’s pale. “Good hurt.”

“Sam…”

Breathes out. Pulls Dean deeper.

“I should…” Little more lube. Dean swirls it in.

Sam sucks air through his teeth. Dean stops. Stares where his fingers disappear behind Sam’s balls. Sam’s straining cock. Sweat pools, trickles in creases. Bullet scar, pink-shiny and angry. Hard brown nipples, heaving chest.

“Dean?” Eyes flutter. Brow folds.

Dean sways low. Licks up Sam’s thigh, bites at his hip. Sam bucks; Dean rolls. Thumbs Sam’s balls, mouths his abs. Chin bumps Sam’s cock. Sam grunts. Dean skims stubble over the head and Sam cusses him. Thighs shake against his shoulders. Dean tastes. Salt so sharp his eyes water. Sam yells, shudders and when it passes, Dean presses. “More?”

Sam nods. Low, steady groan and he shifts. Ring finger, Dean burrows deep. Sam scalds under him, blurts against his lips. Filthy. Bright and perfect. 

They ain’t gettin any younger.

Dean runs a palm up, back of Sam’s leg. Whispers, “Can I—”

“God, yes.” Sam arcs. Stares up through his lashes while Dean strokes a rubber on. Plays with his dick.

First press, so tight, Dean thinks he’ll never get in. Then Sam breathes, bends, and Dean’s cockhead slips through. Sam grunts. Dean shakes on his forearms.

“Don’t stop.”

Thank fuck for that.

Still, ain’t no sense rushing the finish. Dean splits Sam slow. Dips in, pulls back. Chases angles, muscle-flutters.

Sam wiggles, bucks, and squeezes. Begs and cusses, face full of concentration. Shudders and gasps. Dick leaks all over him. “Dean, I can’t, I have to—” Fists in his hair, sweat like that waterfall. “Please!”

Dean almost blows right there. Steadying breath. “Okay, Sammy.”

Sam takes Dean’s hand, guides it around him. Weight. Heat. Thundering heart. Sam’s back bends, hips swirl, and Dean chants, _monster guts, monster guts_ , in his head to keep from coming. Sam sways, rocks, and thrashes. Hair sticks to his face.

“Fuck, you _love_ this, don’tcha?”

Sam seizes. Ass clamps down and his thighs shake. Abs crunch; nails dig in Dean’s chest. Sam yells. Blows. Hot up his belly, money shot’s too much—volcano, fuckin tsunami, comet, end of the world. Dean collapses, covers Sam. Sweat and stink and breath and come. He’ll suffocate like this. Happily.

Sam won’t, though, apparently. Poke to his ribs and a muffled, “You wanna get offa me?”

Dean rocks up to all fours, grins down. Post-orgasmic bliss looks good on Sam. “Hike to the showers gonna suck.”

Sam thumps his chest. “Nice, Dean. Real romantic.”

He rolls out, scares up jogging pants. “ _In_ the shower, though…”

“No.” Sam rolls his eyes but he licks his teeth.

Dean sighs, “Fiiine.” Offers a hand.

Sam takes it.

 

 


	6. Epilogue

“Hey, guess what I got!” Dean lugs a file-sized FedEx box down the Bunker stairs.

Sam holds up a finger. “…small granite slab should do it.” On his phone. “Yup. And get it consecrated. Have a clergy member do a service.” In his PJ’s. Thin white v-neck and Dean’s favorite warm-up pants.

Jake’s voice, muffled at Sam’s ear.

“Which is why you should invite the locals. Make it about healing that break too.” Library’s a war zone. Books and papers, stacked in forts and scattered like casualties. “You bet.” Laptop, tablet, ancient scrolls and Kevin’s scribbles. “Keep us posted, okay?” Sam even got the corkboard out. “Thanks, Jake.”

 Dean leans on the map table.

“Is that…?” Sam greets him with a kiss.

Insides go all Alka-Seltzer. “Ozark Regional Health Collective.” Dean pulls a pocketknife. “Psychiatric Services.” Splits the tape and flips the flaps. “Nora’s contact came through.” Files, dusty and discolored, thick accordion stacks. Audio.

Sam picks up a box of reels. Reads, “‘Dinah Bradshaw. August 21, 1976.’ You think she was still possessed when they—”

“Maybe.”

“Either way, we should—”

“Uh-huh.”

 

*

Sam sets up the Men of Letters’ reel-to-reel in the dungeon. Dean loads the cooler and heads down.

“…age nineteen. Suspect in a… a mass killing…”

“Got it workin, huh?” Dean passes Sam a beer, drops in a chair and props his feet up.

“One for you, and one for me,” Sam says. Hands over a set of headphones. “You start on that end.”

April 1979, some doctor. Talks about, paranoid schizophrenia with religious features. “After all this time,” he almost sighs, “she still believes she was demon possessed.”

Dean looks up, gonna change the tape; this one’s no good.

Sam chews his lip. Tense neck, haunted eyes.

“Hey.” Dean pulls the plug on Sam’s headphones.

Dinah mutters, _free_ and _black_ and _blood_.

Sam exhales. “Dean, it’s fine.”

“No…” Be smart about this. “Look. That end, she’s—”

Sudden sobbing. “I didn’t do this! Please! You have to—”

Dean stops the tape. “And these, down here, probably had her on so many meds by then…”

Sam nods.

“Check this out. This one’s a different handwriting.” Dean spools it in.

Fresh beers. “Hi, Dinah. I’m Dr. Parr.”

New voice. Dinah makes a noncommittal noise.

“This is Dr. Lisa Parr, meeting Ms. Dinah Bradshaw, Arkansas State Hospital, March 8, 1977. Dinah, do you know why I’m here?”

“Because I’m a maniac and a devil worshipper,” monotone.

“I don’t believe that.” Chair legs squeak on floor tiles. “Dinah,” louder, closer to the mic, “tell me what happened. That night.”

Dinah growls, “You won’t fuckin believe me.”

“I wanna hear it anyway.” Gentle, trust-me tone.

Dean throws his palms up. He’s a genius. Sam eye-rolls him and Dean sticks a sock foot between Sam’s thighs, gropes with his toes. Sam damn near drops his beer. Dean smirks.

“Dude…” Sam frowns.

“Yeah-yeah, show some respect.” Dean takes his foot back.

Dinah asks, “Where should I start?”

And Parr asks, “Where do you think it starts?”

Wind noise. Dinah’s exhale, probably. “Friday the thirteenth.”

“Last August,” Parr adds.

“Last bunch of campers checked out, went home.” Well-rehearsed. “Ten of us, hung around, for winter shutdown.” Tight note in her voice. “We… had a party. Over at Wet and Wild—that’s the-uh…”

“Name of a campsite, right?”

Sam leans in. Table edge creases his forearms. Hands fold. Little line above his nose cuts deep.

“…skinny dipping, drinking beers, you know, smoking grass.” Exhale. “Phil—uh, Philip Hensen—he, made us play this dumb game. Like, sword fighting and magic.”

Dungeon’s stuffy. Sweat springs up and pools above Sam’s v-neck.

“…had this book. Nasty, beat-up cover and yellow pages.”

Hair curls, clings at his temples.

“…some kind of Latin I guess, and…”

“Go on, Dinah.” Parr soothes. “It’s okay.”

Dean gets Sam’s eyes, throws a wink.

“There was an earthquake. I… I know how it sounds, and, the other doctor, he says no one picked up anything, but…”

Something hits the microphone. Lowered voices, muffled. Then, Parr: “I know. I want to hear your story, Dinah. I’ll handle Dr. Holland.”

“Can I… smoke?”

“Of course,” Parr says. Shuffling, click of a lighter.

“Lightning…” Dinah goes on, “shot up off the lake. Like, in a massive cone. I freaked out, man. Took off. Phil got to arguing with Randy—uh, Randall Marcus.”

Dean sips his beer. Cops pieced all this together in their reports.

“Can I… Can I have a glass of water, Doc?” Dinah asks.

“Sure,” Parr says. “Let’s take a break.” Tape noises. Then, “Dr. Lisa Parr, with Dinah Bradshaw, continuing. Are you ready to go on, Dinah?”

Exhale. “Yeah.”

“You were in the woods.”

“Uphill, past the cabins. I… got to smelling rotten eggs.”

Jackpot. Sam pulls a notebook over.

“Awful, made me gag.”

Long silence.

“Dinah?”

Wet, “Next thing I knew,” stifled sob, “I had blood up to my elbows. Kneeling over Suzy Frederick. She was…”

Stabbed in the chest. Dean shivers. Left to drown in her own blood.

“Everyone was dead. I was… trying to get back to the lodge, get help when the cops…”

“Sheriff Voss said you had a knife.”

“Uh-huh.” Sniffle. “I…” Dinah breaks down. “Pulled it out of Phil’s neck. To protect myself.”

Parr waits while Dinah cries it out. Then, “What happened next, Dinah?”

“This next part, I dunno. It was like…” Dinah lights another cigarette. “It was like, I was just watching a movie, you know? But, I was the camera. It was fucked up.” Beat. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Parr says. “What did you see?”

Rattling. Ice in a cup, Dean thinks.

“I saw, my hand holding the knife up. Saw the sheriff’s gun. I didn’t feel the bullet, not til later, but…” More ice.

“The police report says you escaped to the woods. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” Dinah sighs. “I remember running through the brambles, thinking it should hurt. I remember hearing someone’s radio…”

“The deputy.”

“I guess.”

“Anything else?”

“I puked. I mean, vomited. No one believes that either because they never found any.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because it wasn’t like, regular puke. It was smoke.”

Rustling. “Dinah, I’d like to read something to you.”

“Okay.”

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,_ ”

Well now. Maybe not a shrink at all.

“ _omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii,_ ”

“Dr. Parr!”  New voice.

“ _omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica._ ”

“Just what, do you think you’re doing?” Holland, must be.

“ _Ergo draco maledicte_ ”

“This is completely irresponsible—”

“ _Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire,_ ”

“—feeding into her delusions!”

“ _te rogamus, audi nos._ ”

“Orderly! Get Miss Bradshaw out of here!”

No screams, howls or rushing winds. Girl musta been clean.

“Dr. Holland.” Parr says, cool. “This is an experimental therapy, based on the placebo effect. If Dinah sits for an exorcism, maybe she’ll come to believe her demon is gone.”

“Get out.”

“You’re the boss.” Shuffling papers. “Dinah, can you tell me one more thing?”

“Parr!” Holland barks.

“What happened when the smoke… left you?”

“I’m-ahh…” Dinah hesitates, “not really sure. All the, pain, you know, and…”

“Dinah…”

“Back off, Holland.”

“I think…” Dinah pushes on. “I saw it go for the deputy. Young guy, all jaws. Wanna say they called him Stump.”

Dean hits STOP. “Dude.”

“Right?”

“So, whaddaya think? Drive back out there? Throw a little holy water at him?”

Sam shakes his head. “He didn’t seem possessed to me, he seemed—”

“Traumatized?” Lord knows they’ve seen plenty of both. “Anyway, this, ‘Dr. Parr’—”

“Hunter, right?”

“Sure sounds like.”

“Seemed to have a handle on it too.” Sam skims his notes. “So. My guess is, Phil Henson somehow laid his hands on the _Sképsi_ —probably as a novelty, but—”

“Devil’s gate.”

“Right,” Sam says. “And Calchas to Gélio’s spell opened it. Partially, anyway.”

Dean grins. “So it’s more, _Evil Dead_ than _Friday the 13th_.” Gets up, slinks around the table, smug that he can. “Case closed, yeah?”

“Looks like.” Sam watches. Tongue gleams between his teeth.

“Y’know…” Dean pulls Sam to his feet. Lips drag, wet and nippy up his jaw. “We haven’t debauched this room yet.”

“Debauched?” Sam squawks. “Pretty fancy word for—”

Dean spins him, cages him against the wall. Foreheads knock and noses squish. “Just…” soft, searching kiss, “somethin I read somewhere.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Please share the love with Nisaki! ♥](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/post/178890565304/art-for-the-wonderful-story-camp-i-had-so-much)


End file.
